


The Time Has Come To Be Alive (Time Will Not Unwind)

by Imaginary_Bomb



Series: Yuo & Dorian [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Deviates From Canon, Discussions of slavery, Emotional Hurt, Fluff, Genderfluid Character, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Dorian Pavus, Slow Burn, Trans Character, bull/lavellan is temporary and not shown in details, happens before dorian/lavellan but some may still find it uncomfortable, read at your own risk I guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-06-05 12:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 29,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15171278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imaginary_Bomb/pseuds/Imaginary_Bomb
Summary: Dorian just wants to do the right thing and get the mess in the sky dealt with, perhaps prevent a few of his idiot countrymen from ending the world, if necessary. This is somewhat complicated by the presence of Andraste's Herald, a tall, surly elf that can't seem to decide whether he wants to kiss Dorian or punch him.- - - - - -Edits made 12/7/18





	1. the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to my beta [A_Lesbian_With_Pink_Hair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Lesbian_With_Pink_Hair/pseuds/A_Lesbian_With_Pink_Hair)

It was something Dorian had taken note of during his first few days at Haven: whenever someone addressed him as Herald, Lavellan’s face would grow stiff and pinched. Every now and then, he’d snap, “I’m not the Herald!” and storm off while people fell over themselves in apology.

“What is it you have against being the Herald?”

Lavellan had looked at him as if Dorian had spat at him. “I’m _Dalish_. What makes you shems think I have any interest in being the herald of _your_ deity?”

“What should we call you, then?”

The amount of disdain Lavellan could pack into a single arched brow was impressive. “My name, perhaps, if that’s not too difficult for you.”

“That would be easier if I knew what your name was.”

Lavellan’s face had made an odd expression. Not exactly blank, but no less indecipherable. Considering, perhaps?

“You can call me Lavellan.”

“That’s your name?”

“It’s what you can call me.”

Something about that smarted a little. “What? Don’t want to give your name to the big bad Tevinter mage?”

A twitch of the lips and hint of playfulness glinted in those sharp green eyes. “It is the name of my clan, and it’s good enough for you.”

Lavellan it was then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can see Yuo here on my [tumblr](http://queerical.tumblr.com/post/172695205704/and-more-yuo-lavellan-and-bastienne-trevelyan)
> 
> will hopefully update once a week but we'll see how that goes


	2. Dorian puts his foot firmly in it

Calling him by his name seemed to soften the Herald toward him. Something Dorian was grateful for, since their initial meeting did not get off to a great start. In the Chantry, Lavellan had been cautious—though Dorian did not miss the look of lustful appreciation. During their time in the future, Lavellan had been equal parts flirtatious and combative. By the end of the whole mess, his feelings toward Dorian seemed to have soured completely.

Something Dorian was keen to rectify. He was determined to work with the Inquisition and didn’t relish spending his time in enmity with its figurehead.

Thus far, Lavellan had been mostly receptive to Dorian’s attempts at conversation, even indulging in some good-natured flirting. (The interest was not just passing, it seemed.) While Lavellan remained rather tight-lipped, he was more than willing to listen to Dorian talk about himself.

He also enjoyed discussing magic. The Dalish clearly taught their mages well. Dorian had not been expecting to find such an avid and knowledgeable debater of magical theory in the south. It reminded him of his time in the Circle back home. With less blood magic, of course.

It wasn’t until Lavellan started asking questions about Tevinter that things truly deteriorated. The wariness from the Chantry was back, and Dorian knew he had to step lightly. Thus far, Lavellan had seemed to appreciate his honestly, even if it sometimes caused offense; Lavellan was a man who valued bluntness over faux-conciliation.

It would be fine. Dorian had no reason to be ashamed of his opinions regarding his country. He knew its strengths and its weaknesses.

That is, until the subject of slavery came up. It was honestly something Dorian had not thought much about. Perhaps he should have left it at that, but he did not. He knew as soon as the words left his mouth, he’d put his foot in it. He’d overheard too many of Lavellan’s arguments with Solas to think the Herald would take his statement well.

Lavellan’s reaction was not what he was expecting. Dorian braced himself for anger, for shouting, perhaps a fist or a fireball. Instead, Lavellan’s expression went completely cool. His gaze turned distant, as if he were speaking to a stranger. He made some noncommittal noise, then simply walked away.

Dorian had a sinking feeling that he’d royally fucked things up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had no idea time could pass so slowly i feel like i've been waiting to update this fic for ten years. anyway things are heating up


	3. the cold shoulder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the record, views expressed about certain characters are the opinion of my inquisitor and not necessarily my own

Lavellan made no secret of which members of the Inquisition he disliked. At the top of the list were Cullen, Solas, Cassandra, and Vivienne. Cullen had to be the one he argued with the most. Frequently about the mages, often about Templars, and occasionally about Cullen’s training regimen, and _always_ very, very loudly.

Arguments with Cassandra were a little more varied. While they covered mages and Templars, they also included Seekers, the Chantry, the Divine, Andrastianism, and everyone’s insistence on calling him the Herald. These typically concluded by one or both of them storming off in a huff.

Solas would be ignored for a number of days, until Lavellan decided to indulge in a discussion of magic or history. These discussions always devolved into arguments about the Dalish and elves in general. The result was several more days of mutually hostile silence.

Dorian had clearly been added to the list. Thus far, he’d been given the same treatment as Vivienne: general avoidance and polite indifference.

He’d asked Lavellan about that once, wondering what set Vivienne apart that spared her from the shouting.

“I respect Vivienne, in spite of our disagreements,” Lavellan had replied. “She is passionate, but rational and articulate. Her opinions come from firsthand experience and are not without merit. Some might take issue with her passive aggression, but I appreciate that she isn’t coy about it; she vocalizes her disdain as clearly as I do. And she cares for mages, truly.

“Her fault is that she is ignorant of the Dalish and does not care to learn otherwise. She refuses to recognize that an elf’s perspective is different, that our relationship with the Chantry, with Templars and the Circle, cannot be the same. She uses her flawed knowledge of the Dalish to argue in favor of the Circles, ignoring how their institution has harmed us.

“I will not tolerate that, but I’ve no desire to fight with her. I doubt she would entertain it, anyway. She is a skilled mage and her help is invaluable. I’ve no wish to alienate her, but I am not capable of civil conversation, so it’s best to simply avoid her.”

Dorian got the feeling _his_ being avoided was not the same.

To make matters more awkward, Lavellan continued to take him out with the party. Sure, sometimes he took the Iron Bull instead, but more often than not, it was Dorian. Going out with Blackwall, who was, well, Blackwall, and Sera, who had yet to warm up to him. Which meant traveling with _three_ people who didn’t like him.

Plus, Lavellan’s behavior was… erratic in the field. It didn’t affect how Lavellan acted in battle, for which Dorian was grateful—it was always good to have a battle mage between him and the ones with pointy ends. However, traveling in such close quarters made it hard to ignore someone. Occasionally, Lavellan would flirt or joke with Dorian, only to catch himself and act especially antagonistic to make up for it.

Not a good time.

When Dorian confronted Lavellan about it, all he got in response was, “You know healing spells.”

Yes, a few. Though certainly not as many as Solas, or even Vivienne. Dorian was sure there had to be more to it. Normally, he would guess it to be some twisted form of punishment, but Lavellan wasn’t that conniving.

Dorian would have to find a way to rectify this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic will refer to yuo as a battle mage even though that is not a specialization in DAI. if i could play as one, he would be and since is this fanfiction what i say goes


	4. the slavery thing comes to a head

“Might I speak with you?”

Lavellan had just left a meeting with Leliana and was heading to tutor some of the younger Circle mages. _Now or never_ , Dorian thought. At least that way, if Lavellan murdered him, it wouldn’t be in front of a group of impressionable children, whom Lavellan spent most of his time with while in Haven.

That disdainful brow again. “Speak?”

“If I may?”

Lavellan watched him for a long moment, then shrugged and led him a ways off from the Chantry. Not so far that people wouldn’t hear any shouting, but at least they would be unseen. “Alright, speak.”

“I realize that my comments on slavery have caused you offense.”

Lavellan folded his arms. “Worked that out all on your own did you?”

“I would like to discuss it with you. I wish to know where I went wrong.”

Lavellan scoffed. “You want me to explain to you why _owning another person_ is wrong?”

“I’m not saying it’s right, it’s not about the morality—”

“You argued in defense of it. Did it not occur to you that I don’t consider it a valuable use of my time to ‘discuss’ the subject with someone who considers _owning another person_ to be a defensible act?”

“And what was wrong in my defense?”

“That you defended it at all!”

A tense silence hung between them, before Lavellan expelled a harsh breath and began pacing.

Dorian smoothed his robes. “The fact remains that slavery is entrenched in Tevinter society—”

“And it shouldn’t be!” Lavellan turned on him. “Just like how Circles are entrenched in society in the south, but you still know _that’s_ wrong.”

“That’s different—”

“True. Mages in the south aren’t slaves, they’re prisoners. They aren’t owned, but they are exploited, abused, and have no personal freedom. Similar enough to make the comparison. And yet you know one is wrong, but willfully accept the other.”

Dorian had no way to reply to that.

“It’s curious, but aren’t blood magic and scheming and illusions of supremacy entrenched in Tevinter society? It’s… telling that you criticize all of Tevinter’s flaws except the one that benefits you.”

“Not anymore.”

Lavellan threw his hands up. “Oh, how valiant of you! To leave the comfort of your family home and travel to the barbaric south where you have to fluff your own pillows and peel your own grapes.”

Dorian’s nails cut into his palm. “It’s not like that.”

Lavellan paused for a moment. His face had that odd, blank look of consideration again, like he was revising something in his head about Dorian’s character. More quietly, he said, “Even if you didn’t own them personally, Dorian, you still made use of them. Even if you treated them well, they were still property.”

Dorian took a deep breath, trying to bring his thoughts back under control. “In the south—”

“I know what it’s like in the south!” Lavellan snapped. “Just because it’s shitty for elves here doesn’t mean it’s acceptable for it to be shitty for us in Tevinter. It shouldn’t be shitty for us anywhere! We shouldn’t have to choose between poverty and slavery.

“Slavery isn’t a _solution_ to poverty. I don’t care if what you say is true, I don’t care if a hundred men—a thousand men—have helped their families by willingly selling themselves into slavery. I don’t care if most magisters treat their slaves kindly. Even one elf stolen from the south by the slave trade is too many. Even one elf abused is too much. Even one elven family broken apart is too far.”

“I don’t disagree, but—”

“Tell me something, Dorian. You said I was the first Dalish you talked to. Have you ever talked to an alienage elf? A man living in the slums in Tevinter? Have you ever spoken to an ex-slave? Have you ever asked them whether they would trade poverty for slavery?”

He had not.

“I have spoken to slaves.”

“How did you know they were telling the truth? How can you know they weren’t just telling you what they thought you wanted to hear? What they hoped would not get them punished?”

Dorian hadn’t considered that.

When Dorian remained quiet, Lavellan stepped away from him. “It seems I’ve given you some things to consider. Do that.”

Then Dorian was left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> climax~


	5. Dorian makes amends

As expected, Dorian found Lavellan in his hutch, surrounded by a gaggle of Circle children. It appeared that day’s lesson was in entropy.

Lavellan took the safety and care of the rebel mages very seriously. He worked with Fiona to see that the mages’ needs were met. He fought with Cullen and Cassandra to make sure the Templars kept their distance. He taught them tricks to control their magic and keep demons at bay. He was a free mage, confident in his power, and not cowed by the threat of Templars. The Herald had become something of a hero to the rebel mages; when in Haven, there were usually at least one or two trailing after him.

Lavellan paused in his lesson and looked up at him. The brow again, although with less disdain this time. Dorian dared to hope.

“I’ve come to apologize.”

Lavellan hummed, then pulled up another chair. “Sit.” When Dorian sat, he turned back to his students. “This is Dorian. He’s the scary mage from Tevinter you should be afraid of.”

And thus he had the rapt attention of the entire room. None of the children looked particularly afraid.

A hand shot in the air. “Are you really from Tevinter?”

Dorian chuckled. “I am.”

Another hand. “Are you a magister?”

“No. Although my father is.” And that did not hurt to say, it did not.

“What’s it like to live in Tevinter?”

 _Ah, there’s the test_. Dorian cleared his throat. “Like anywhere else, I suppose. There’s good and bad.”

A small child raised a hesitant hand. “Aren’t mages free there?”

“For the most part. Freedom does not solve all of one’s problem, unfortunately. But yes, it is nice. We actually get to learn things in our Circles and you can use magic in everyday life.”

“You still have Circles?” another child chimed in.

“We do, but not like yours. They’re proper schools. You get to leave. Also, our Templars don’t harass us.”

“You have Templars?”

“Yes, but they’re very different. They don’t take lyrium and they can’t cancel magic.”

“What are the Circles in Tevinter like?”

“The Templars really don’t bother you?”

“What’s it like to be a magister?”

“What happened when you discovered your magic?”

“How old were you?”

“Do you still have the Chant in Tevinter?”

Dorian looked over at Lavellan. He had his chin propped on his hand and was watching Dorian with that blank, considering look. Dorian was definitely in the middle of a test. Well, Dorian had always liked children. This was a test he was confident he could pass.

The next hour was spent answering every question the starry-eyes apprentices could throw at him. Lavellan looked on in what appeared to be amusement, covering his mouth to stifle what could possibly be a laugh every now and then.

Eventually, Lavellan brought them back around. “Alright, Pavus, you’ve distracted my students long enough.”

A resounding boo came from the crowd.

Lavellan laughed. “And what are you going to tell Fiona you learned today, hm? You’re not leaving here until I know you can properly cast a disorient spell.”

Dorian waved goodbye and got up from his seat. At the door, he took one last look over his shoulder. Lavellan caught his eye, smiled, and mouthed ‘later.’ Dorian nodded and let the door shut behind him.


	6. the fence is mended

That evening, Dorian sat at Varric’s fire, hunched over a borrowed copy of Hard in Hightown. He needed _something_ to read that wasn’t Chantry propaganda. Varric was currently spinning a tale to a small group of soldiers and townspeople. Dorian had finally gotten to the point where he could sit in the open like this and not be gawked at.

 _Southerners_.

“The children like you.”

Dorian looked up to find Lavellan standing over him, a gentle smile on his lips. It was a strange smile to see on his face. Gentleness was not a trait that typically applied to him.

He was also out of his armor which was… most unusual. Now, he wore only a simple green tunic, embroidered in a twisting floral pattern—presumably Dalish—and a tight pair of leather breeches that hugged every muscle in his legs. And no shoes.

“Are you not freezing?”

Lavellan followed Dorian’s gaze to his feet; his toes wiggled against the snow-dusted earth. He smirked. “My clan’s lived in Fereldan before, so I’m used to the weather. Plus, I am wearing a whole shirt.”

Dorian sniffed. “It’s _fashion_. There’s nothing fashionable about losing your toes to frostbite.”

“Luckily, I have something to keep us both warm.” He brandished a bottle of Antivan honey wine. “Flissa held it aside for me.”

“You truly are Maker-sent.”

His smirk sharpened. “I get that from time to time. Normally after I’ve saved someone’s life, though.”

He took a seat beside Dorian, as Dorian snapped his book closed. Lavellan tugged the cork out with his teeth, took a sip, then passed it to Dorian. He accepted it gratefully; his cloak was doing little against the chill air. Without his usual gauntlets, Dorian noticed that Lavellan had designs on the backs of his hands; gray and curling, like his facial tattoos.

“You mentioned something about apologizing?”

“Ah, yes.”

“For what?” Lavellan was watching him with that strange, soft smile. It was a little unnerving.

He passed the bottle over. “How about I start with being an ass?”

Lavellan chuckled against the rim as it came to his lips. “If that’s what you’re apologizing for, you’ll never stop apologizing.”

“Oh, har har.” Dorian snatched the wine back. “I’m _trying_ to be genuinely sorry here.”

“Are you?”

“I _am_.”

“Hmm.”

Dorian took a sip and saw Lavellan’s gaze drop to his lips. The wine hit his airway and he choked, nearly dropping the bottle. Lavellan took it from him.

After a moment, he managed, “Does this— _ehm_ —does this mean I have your forgiveness?”

Lavellan’s brows raised. “For defending slavery? Hah! No.”

“Ah.”

“I do accept your apology, however. And I am… willing to move forward.”

Dorian’s gut unclenched. “I would… like to move forward.”

“And perhaps you will have learned something from this,” Lavellan prompted.

Dorian accepted the bottle. “Oh, almost certainly.”

Lavellan chuckled. “Then perhaps I will tolerate you, after all.”

The sound of that laugh had Dorian’s insides fluttering. Or perhaps it was the wine. And the cold. Although, he felt rather warm now, with the alcohol and Lavellan practically leaning against him. The man was a bastion of heat.

Dorian stopped that thought before it could go any further.

“You know, this ended all rather amicably.”

“Amicably?”

“Well, I rather thought you’d punch me at some point.”

Lavellan was silent, his expression inscrutable. He leaned closer, pressed hip to shoulder, and reached out to run a scarred, calloused finger down the side of Dorian’s face. “And ruin this?” he breathed.

Dorian tried for words, but his mouth was dry. Where was the wine? Ah, Lavellan had it now. Had probably had too much of it in fact. Surely they both had, that was why…

Lavellan did not look away, his fingertips resting against Dorian’s jaw. His hair, loose from its usual braid, burned as brightly as the fire, spilling over his shoulders as if haloed in flames. His eyes were like chips of stained glass, took Dorian back to his family’s summer home, with the window mural of a priest carrying a basket of fruit, the limes shining more brightly than the rest. The smell of honey eclipsed the ever present stench of sweat, leather, and dog. Maker, he was so close.

The sound of a cleared throat behind them had Dorian jerking away as far as his seat allowed. Lavellan did not startle, simply held still and watched Dorian retreat from his hand. Then he turned to the agent, standing awkwardly—and, Dorian hoped, apologetically—at his side.

“Yes?”

“The Nightingale apologizes for the hour, but insists the matter is urgent.”

Lavellan sighed, his face turned away, so Dorian could not see his expression. “I’ll be right there.”

As the agent left, Lavellan turned back to him. He looked startlingly sober and far more in control of his faculties than Dorian. He stood—and, Maker, how had Dorian never noticed how tall he was, and for an _elf_ —and placed the honey wine in Dorian’s hands. He clutched it tightly to his chest.

“Good night, Dorian," he said, voice deep and full in inscrutrable meaning.

Once Lavellan had walked away, and Dorian regained some of his senses, he realized it was oddly quiet. He turned. Varric had paused in his tale, although when Dorian could not say, and was now smirking widely at him. The dwarf’s audience was once again openly gawking, expressions in various states of shock and appall. None in outright revulsion, at least.

Dorian cleared his throat, loud in the night air, and stood. With all manner of proper decorum, he said, “I believe I shall retire to bed now. Good night, Varric.” Clutching his wine and his book, he walked, on knees that were assuredly not weak, back to his hutch without further incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> resolution~
> 
> this was a chapter i really enjoyed writing, so i hope you enjoyed it to!


	7. in hushed whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for a flashback

They had collected three of the needed red lyrium shards when the Herald began to lag behind. Dorian slowed. “Are you alright? Are you injured? I know some healing.” _I’ll protect you_ , Dorian had said. He meant it.

The Herald shook his head. He was looking rather ashen under the splatters of blood. “I just… need a moment.” He staggered to a stop, leaning against a pile of rubble.

“What’s this? You all right?” The elf, Sera, asked, hoisting her bow as if the problem was something she could shoot.

The Herald shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. “I need a moment.”

“Is the lyrium getting to you?” Blackwall asked.

Another head shake.

“I think he needs some space,” Dorian said.

“Let him rest,” Leliana rasped. “He will need all of his strength. We will keep watch.” Her sunken eyes were sharp; she seemed to understand something Dorian did not.

The three of them moved away, weapons at the ready. Dorian helped the Herald slump onto a collapsed piece of furniture. “Are you sure you don’t need healing?” Dorian asked again, voice quiet.

The Herald covered his face with a gauntleted hand. “I just need a break. I didn’t realize how much it would affect me.”

“The red lyrium? It is rather unpleasant, like bugs crawling under your skin.”

“Not that. Them. Seeing them.” His hand dropped, revealing the dark creases under his eyes. “Turning to tell Sera a joke, helping Blackwall up after a fall, and finding their eyes like that. They’re half in their graves. And Leliana… they were torturing her—I heard my name—they were torturing her because of me. All of them, because I wasn’t here, I left—”

“You didn’t leave,” Dorian cut in. “Alexius attacked you. What happened to them was because of Alexius and the Elder One, not you. And it isn’t real, none of this will happen—”

“It is real.” The Herald turned to Dorian, eyes bright with panic. “It’s happening right now, to us. To them. It’s really happening, Dorian.”

“Well… we’re going to stop it happening to them, at least.”

The Herald laughed, like gravel. “Right. It’s all just going to be a bad fucking dream.” He huffed and stood, taking up his staff. “I’m sorry, Dorian. I know he was your mentor, but I’m going to cave that magister’s fucking skull in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see part 2 of this series: Where We Will Thrive for additional adventures of yuo, blackwall, dorian, and sera


	8. time for a learning curve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao accidentally added this to the wrong fic let's try again

“Dorian, you were absolutely useless in that fight.” Lavellan stood over him, hands on his hips.

Dorian glared up at him from his seat on a rock. “It’s not my fault! They were Templars! They smited—smote—whatever your bloody southern Templars do that cancels magic.”

“It’s called a silence. But they did smite us, as well.”

Sera cackled from where she was looting bodies under Blackwall’s disapproving gaze. “Didn’t stop Ser Glowy Hand from sending their asses to next week.”

Dorian grumbled.

They’d stumbled upon a camp of rogue Templars, as is wont to happen in the Hinterlands. Dorian had put up a barrier as Lavellan summoned lightning. The Templars had reacted to magic as Templars do, and with a combined smite and silence, Dorian and Lavellan were laid out.

Well,  _Dorian_  had been laid out. Lavellan had stumbled, grimaced, then promptly slit the throat of the nearest Templar with his staff blade.

With Lavellan’s tendency to put himself at the forefront of every fight, Dorian knew he could handle himself in close quarters combat. What Dorian had  _not_  known was that Lavellan was just as capable a fighter even without magic.

So while Lavellan had charged in as he always did, Dorian had done his best to stagger out of range to recover. The most Dorian could do was use his staff to fend off a Templar until Sera took them out as he waited for his mana to replenish. Which it did…  _after_  all the Templars were dead.

“What do you want me to do?” Dorian whined.

“Have the Herald give you some pointers on melee combat,” Blackwall suggested. “Or we could bring out the Iron Bull instead.”

Dorian opened his mouth to retort, but before he could respond, a smile spread on Lavellan’s face. It was not a kind, helpful smile. It was his “I’m going to enjoy this, most likely at your expense” smile.  _Oh no_.

Dorian raised a finger. “Before you get any ideas—”

“Oh, I only have one idea, and it’s going to be great!” He clapped his hands together. “Blackwall, you’re a genius. Dorian, as soon as we get back to Haven, I’m giving you  _thorough_  training on melee fighting with a staff.”

“I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Nonsense. It’ll be fun.”

“Sucks to be you,” Sera taunted, sticking her tongue out at him.

“Let me know if you need any help,” Blackwall said, smirking at Dorian over Lavellan’s shoulder.

Dorian groaned. He foresaw many bruises and aching muscles in his immediate future—and not the fun kind. At least Lavellan was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kno we see Dorian fighting close quarters when we first meet him, so before anyone says anything, here's my reasoning:
> 
> headcanon that in Tevinter, magic is a big deal (obviously). when it comes to fighting/dueling or what have you, reliance on magic isn't just preferred, it's esteemed. fighting without magic is something that's looked down upon. resorting to a sword or fist or using one's staff like a bludgeon would be an awful disgrace, because it would show your weakness in magic.
> 
> so i figure that dorian knows the basics of handling a staff in melee combat just cuz it seemed like something fun to learn to stay fit while he was already flouting other tevinter traditions. he can beat down a demon and fend off a templar when necessary, but he doesnt have the training to handle an entire fight without any magic the way yuo does.


	9. Dorian learns a new word

Dorian was settled by the tavern fire playing Wicked Grace with Varric, Blackwall, and Bull when Lavellan stormed in. He threw himself into the seat beside Dorian. “Varric, deal me in. I need something to distract me.”

Varric chuckled, passing over some cards. “Been dealing with Curly again, I take it?”

Lavellan scowled. “I might’ve almost preferred that. No, Josephine had some nobles I needed to woo.”

Flissa hurried over with a mug of ale for Lavellan, which he thanked her for. He immediately downed half of it. “Fucking shems.”

"My condolences,” Blackwall said, chuckling.

“Don’t envy you, Boss,” Bull said. He tossed some silvers into the pot.

“Don’t you work with nobles, Tiny?” Varric asked.

“Sure, we take their money, but we don’t have to play politics with them.”

Lavellan grumbled, putting in a couple of sovereigns.

Dorian folded. “I’m curious, what does that word mean—shem? You say it often.”

Lavellan glanced at him, irritation still edging his eyes. “It’s derived from shemlen. Which is our word for humans.”

“Oh. You say it with such vitriol, I assumed it was some sort of slur.”

Lavellan sneered. “Yes, like how some people say the word ‘elf’.”

There wasn’t much Dorian could say to that.

“Would you like Dorian and me to give you some space?” Blackwall offered.

Lavellan waved his hand dismissively. “I just want to play cards with some people who _aren’t_ insufferable. Dorian, you folded? Get me a refill.” He pushed over his now empty mug.

Dorian sighed but did as requested. He certainly didn’t envy Lavellan’s position. If it kept him from taking his frustration out on Dorian, he would fetch Lavellan all the ale he wanted. Within reason.


	10. a moment after

Lavellan was always beautiful after a fight. Splattered with blood, flushed from adrenaline, eyes glittering with triumph. He laughed, heedless of his injuries, twirling his staff. Dorian didn’t think even the Iron Bull relished a good fight as much as Lavellan.

“Alright, Dorian?” Lavellan asked. He was grinning from ear to ear, blood seeping from a wound at his hairline.

“I worry about your sanity, sometimes.”

Lavellan laughed. “Nothing wrong with getting your blood flowing a little.”

“Yes, well, I like my blood to stay flowing _inside_ my body.”

“Aww.” Lavellan reached out to pat Dorian’s cheek. “I’ll try to keep all the swords aimed at me next time.”

It was not the most comforting gesture, given the sharp points of his gauntlet. But Lavellan was otherwise never so affectionate, so Dorian allowed it.

“Speaking of…” Dorian pointed at the wound on his head. “Need healing?”

Lavellan waved him off. “Nothing a potion can’t take care of. Check on Blackwall, though. He took a hard hit from their bruiser.”

And with that, Lavellan moved on to his next target, enveloping her in a hug. “Sera! The way you made that guy’s head explode was amazing!”

“Ger’off! You’re disgusting!”

Dorian told himself that he was not jealous, that he did not want a bloody, sweaty, overenthusiastic hug from their stupidly tall Herald. He almost believed himself.

He sighed and went to assist Blackwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this week's chapter is so short. next one'll be longer


	11. the herald and the commander

Dorian sat on the steps at the entrance to Haven. He’d begged a book of magical theory off Vivienne, and was enjoying a rare day of temperate weather.

He caught sight of Lavellan leaving the blacksmith. He paused by the Chargers’ tents to speak with Krem, then headed over to the training grounds. He leaned against one of the dummies, arms crossed, with a careful eye on the troops. Dorian watched him, book forgotten. Whatever was about to happen would doubtless be more interesting than anything on the page.

Eventually, Lavellan approached a pair of soldiers sparring. The two of them immediately leapt to attention at his approach.

“You, watch your feet,” he snapped. “And you there, you’re going to trip over your shield if you keep holding it like that.”

“Yes, sir!” they each said, with an eager salute.

“And quit expecting your opponent to be a gentleman. You’re not Chevaliers, and this isn’t a tournament. There aren’t rules, and your enemy will take every advantage you give them. Right, Cullen?”

The man in question jumped, before hastily composing himself. “Er, yes, Herald. We should train—”

“Recruit, your weapons.” Lavellan held out his hands.

“Uh, what? I mean, yessir, here.”

“Cullen, get yourself arms. We’ll show them how it’s done.”

Cullen hesitated a moment, before moving to take the other recruit’s practice weapons. “Very well.”

Lavellan secured his shield and tested the weight of the wooden sword with a few experimental swings.

Dorian snapped his book closed and set it aside. Lavellan was going to fight Cullen with a sword? He had to get a better view for this. The soldiers were already forming a loose circle around their commander and Herald, confused and excited murmurs passing among them. Lavellan often inserted himself into Cullen’s training to give tips and instruction, but this was first he’d made a demonstration.

Lavellan and Cullen faced off.

Cullen said, “I’m not sure this is the most expedient—”

Lavellan lunged. Dorian did not quite follow what happened next. Their shields collided with a resounding smash; Cullen staggered under the blow. Lavellan swung his sword, which Cullen parried—and then Cullen was on the ground.

“And _that’s_ why you watch your feet!” Lavellan crowed, as the crowd fell silent with shock. “C’mon, Cullen, next round. See if you can last a little longer this time.”

“Impressive,” Bull mused, coming up beside Dorian. “Didn’t know the boss could do that.”

The soldiers were bubbling with renewed excitement. Likely none of them ever expected to see a mage take down their commander with a sword.

The fight was brutal. Lavellan pulled out every dirty trick in the book, forcing Cullen to meet him with full strength. Dorian supposed this counted as a practical demonstration for the recruits, but from the manic smile on Lavellan’s face, he would bet Lavellan had other motivations.

The match dragged on for nearly half an hour. Both Lavellan and Cullen were sweaty, bloodied, and bruised, their armor worse for wear. They’d drawn a significant crowd of soldiers, townspeople, and mages, as well as Cassandra, Blackwall, Varric, and Sera. Sera was calling out jeers and taunts, and he was pretty sure Varric was taking bets.

Eventually Lavellan called an end to the fight. “Now, that should give you an idea of what to expect in actual battle,” he said to the gathered recruits, as Cullen picked himself up from the ground yet again. “Hopefully, it’s given you an idea of applying some ingenuity to your tactics. Remember, your pride isn’t as important as coming home alive. Don’t be afraid to fight a little dirty, if necessary.”

He handed his practice weapons back to the soldier he’d borrowed from. The young man had a look of sheer awe on his face.

“Thanks for the participation, Cullen. Get yourself healed.”

“Of course, Herald,” Cullen panted, using his fur to mop the sweat from his face. He winced when he accidentally brushed his broken nose.

The crowd gave boisterous cheers and immediately tried to swarm their Herald. Before Dorian could blink, Bull slipped to Lavellan’s side, ensuring he was given a nice, wide berth. Lavellan approached him, limping slightly from a sprained ankle and wiping the blood and sweat from his face with his sleeve.

“That was spectacular,” Dorian said.

Lavellan smirked. “It _was_ satisfying. But you have seen me fight before.”

“Not like that. I had no idea you knew how to use a sword.”

He shrugged. “Everyone in my clan is trained to defend themselves. I was wielding a sword well before I was throwing fireballs. Anyway, I could use healing if you’re available.”

“Uh, certainly.” That was a surprise. Lavellan very rarely accepted healing, preferring to use potions. An odd quirk Dorian couldn’t fathom, but he supposed it had something to do with Lavellan being an adrenaline addicted battle masochist.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Bull said. “Varric owes me money.”

Dorian followed Lavellan back to his lodging. Inside, Lavellan stripped off the upper half of his clothing and went to the basin in the corner of the room. With a quick spell, he heated the water, then took a rag and began washing his skin.

Dorian took a moment to admire the sculpted curves of Lavellan’s back and the twisting tattoo at the base of his spine, before turning his attention to the room. The house Lavellan had been given had few personal touches. His staff was propped next to the bed, with sheets spilling to the floor. Books with loose papers and writing implements cluttered the desk. Shelves were stocked with herbs and materials for enchantments. In the window hung a chime made for him out of stones and bits of glass by the younger apprentices.

“The Dalish don’t have houses, yes? How is it living in one?”

He turned to find Lavellan down to his smallclothes. He had a leg propped up on the edge of the tub to scrub his foot. Maker, did this man have any idea the effect he had on Dorian? He couldn’t have so little self-awareness.

Lavellan raised a brow at him. “I’ve been in houses before.”

Dorian coughed, willing the blush to recede from his cheeks. “Yes, but is it different to _live_ in one?”

Lavellan shrugged, moving to his other foot. “It’s… different. Hard to explain. It’s like there’s too much space, while also being claustrophobic? I don’t know. Walls are… sturdy, I guess. But I prefer sleeping with the sky overhead.”

He tossed the rag into the basin and pulled on a pair of clean breeches. He picked up his comb and took a seat on the edge of his bed, undoing his braid. Dorian brought over a stool to sit across from him to see to his injuries. Nothing looked too serious, mostly bruises and scrapes. He set to work.

“I’m still impressed,” Dorian said, starting with Lavellan’s swollen ankle. “I’ve never seen a mage wield a sword with that level of skill. You said you learned to defend yourself, but you know how to defend yourself with magic. Why train with a sword?”

“While I’m sure you’re used to throwing magic at every problem in Tevinter, it’s a bit different in the south,” Lavellan drawled, inspecting the ends of his hair. “We can’t always use magic freely, especially near human cities. And, as you know, Templars can cancel magic. It’s to our benefit to know how to fight close range with our staffs and with another kind of weapon. My sister is also a mage and trained with a bow.”

Dorian paused in his work. “You have a sister? That might be the first thing I’ve learned about your personal history. Do I get to know her name?”

Lavellan held very still, lips pressed to a thin line. “She is a spirit healer and older than me. And that is all I will say on the matter.”

“So you’re a younger sibling. Is she as good looking as you?”

Lavellan scoffed and began tugging his comb through his hair. “We do not look very much alike. Take that as you will.”

“Hmm.” Dorian resumed his attention to Lavellan’s bruised ribs. He would not have guessed Lavellan to have a sibling, but then he had not heard anything of his family until now. “As an only child, I’ve always been curious what it’s like to have a sibling.”

“You would not enjoy it. It requires allowing another person to take attention away from you.”

“Well, that would be dreadful.”

“It is nice, though, I suppose. She understands me better than anyone, and we have always been there for each other.” He sighed. “Of anyone, I wish I could have her with me.”

Dorian’s hands faltered in their work, spell fizzling out. Lavellan had never confided in him this way. His tongue fumbled with what to say.

Brusquely, Lavellan continued, “Well, it’s not like everyone has a good relationship with their sibling.” He set his comb aside. “Anyway, thanks for your help.”

“Oh, one more.” He reached up to heal the cut above Lavellan’s eye and the bruise on his jaw. “There.” His fingers brushed the bone earring Lavellan wore and his eyelids fluttered. Dorian jerked his hand back. “Sorry.”

Lavellan’s eyes opened, pinning him. This close, he could see there were flecks of yellow amid the green, laugh lines crinkled at the corners.

“I do not find your touch unpleasant,” Lavellan murmured.

Dorian’s mouth went dry.

“Thank you, Dorian.”

“Y-you’re welcome.” His eyes took that opportunity to remind him that Lavellan was still sitting there without a shirt. “Well, I’ll, um, see you later.” He stood, straightening his robes.

“Until later.”

Dorian turned from Lavellan’s probing stare and went to retrieve Vivienne’s book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a longer one for you this week, and the last chapter that takes place at haven
> 
> what comes next is part 3: Through the Ashes in the Sky


	12. the second beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended that you read part 3: Through the Ashes first as plot important things occur that will be referenced in future chapters
> 
> now onto Skyhold

Dorian found Lavellan in the garden, playing chess by himself on the gazebo. “You’re telling me there’s no one in this entire castle willing to play chess with the Inquisitor?”

Lavellan grimaced. “Ugh.”

“Well now, that’s an expression I haven’t seen since people were calling you the Herald of Andraste. ‘Inquisitor’ not religiously neutral enough for you?”

Lavellan sighed, slumping over the table.

After a moment, in which Lavellan didn’t move, Dorian gestured to the seat across from him. “May I?”

A grunt was all he got in response.

Dorian took a seat and began resetting the board. “So what is it you have against being called Inquisitor?”

Lavellan huffed, chin resting on his crossed arms. “It’s a combination of things.” He reached out and moved his pawn. “Mostly, it’s hero worship.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Dorian said, making his retaliation.

“It’s just another form of—of dehumanization. Like Blackwall said, I’m a symbol to them. Maybe it is what they need, but they don’t _know_ me. Varric told me he didn’t know how to be my disciple—like that’s what I want! I’m just a person, I’m not divinely touched. But it’s like I’m ascendant to them.” He put down his next piece with enough force to rattle the board.

“Hmm.” Dorian considered next move carefully. “You don’t think it’s good, being in a position of authority? As an elf?”

Lavellan scoffed. “The Hero of Fereldan was an elf, died saving the world. Have things improved for elves since then? We’re heroes _in spite_ of being elves. We’re heroes because they’ve decided we’re not like _other_ elves.

“You should see the faces of some of the nobles who meet me for the first time; they call me Inquisitor like it causes them pain. Sometimes it’s gratifying, other times it just reminds me how much humans still hate my people.” Lavellan moved his mage and took one of Dorian’s pawns. “And they will _still_ address Cullen or Cassandra or Josephine when I’m standing right there.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. The mages are thrilled, though.”

Lavellan sighed. “They are, yes. And I have had more than one elven agent tell me how much it means that I’ve been made Inquisitor. So not only do I have to save the world, I’ve got the fate of elves _and_ mages on my shoulders, not to mention the Chantry breathing down my fucking neck.”

Dorian used his tower to take one of Lavellan’s knights. “Such is fate.”

He snorted. “I could do with a little less fate.”

They played in silence for a several minutes. Dorian wondered where Lavellan had learned to play, because they were nearly evenly matched. Perhaps there was a Dalish equivalent.

“It’s just…” Lavellan sighed. “It puts me away from… people. They think I’m more than I am. It makes me seem unreachable to… people.”

“Like Varric?”

“Like Varric.” His eyes flicked up to Dorian, then back down to the board. “And people.”

 _Ah_.

Dorian grinned. “People like me, perhaps?”

His lips thinned. “Perhaps.”

“I did not mean to give the impression I was avoiding you. I assumed you would be busy.”

Lavellan grimaced. “I _have_ been busy.” He spat and took one of Dorian’s mages in a move that was not entirely legitimate. “It’s just—when it first—it didn’t seem to matter so much to you, and I hoped…”

Dorian recalled their first conversation after Lavellan’s appointment. He had been upset and shaken by the events at Haven, enraged and saddened to learn of Corypheus—and ready to take it out on the first person to approach him. That person, of course, being the victim at the heart of the whole mess.

His emotions had been tangled and frayed, not quite recovered from the shock of Lavellan’s sacrifice and miraculous return. He had not comported himself in the most diplomatic manner, tossing out congratulations like an afterthought. Nothing out of character for Dorian, of course.

He had not realized what that might mean to Lavellan.

“Everyone’s treating me differently,” Lavellan continued. “ _Solas_ is acting deferential, even if he’s as rude about it as possible. That’s not what I wanted between us. It’s not a—a solution. It’s just another complication.”

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Lavellan always worried about things being _equal_ , being _just_. He couldn’t stand to see an imbalance of power. He had been put off by Dorian’s position before anything.

“So… ‘Lavellan’ then?”

Lavellan smirked. “If that’s not too difficult for you.”

That was settled then. “Now, about that move you made a few turns back—”

“If you found fault with it, you should have said so then. It’s too late now.”

“Oh, you’re not getting off that easy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update, my beta was short on spoons


	13. Alexius's judgment

“Pack your bags, Dorian. We’re heading off to the Storm Coast day after tomorrow.”

Dorian did not look up from his book. “Joy of joys. Whatever for, may I ask?”

“Sightings of darkspawn. Going to see if there’s anything we can do.”

Dorian sighed. “What is the point of there being Grey Wardens if they’re not around to kill darkspawn when you need them?”

“You’ll have to take that up with Blackwall.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

When there was silence instead of Lavellan’s usual sarcastic remark about his and Blackwall’s bickering, Dorian finally looked up at him. Lavellan was leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, watching Dorian intently.

“I know I’m a pleasant view, but that stare of yours is rather unnerving. Did you need something?”

The corner of Lavellan’s lips quirked before settling into a frown. “Alexius’s judgment was yesterday.”

“Yes.” Dorian fiddled with the pages of his book. “I heard from Fiona you have him working for the mages. There’s some justice to that. Maybe one day he’ll realize it.”

“Then, you approve of the decision?”

Dorian snorted. “I sincerely doubt you made your judgment based on whether I would approve.”

“No, but…” Lavellan turned his gaze out the window. “I know he’s important to you. I wouldn’t want my decision to cause you unhappiness.”

Warmth fluttered under Dorian’s breastbone. He cleared his throat, closing his book. “I will admit some surprise. I believe I recall something about bashing his skull in.”

Lavellan shrugged. “I killed the Alexius that was responsible for that future. The current Alexius has lost his will to fight… or even live. There’s little satisfaction in killing a man aggrieved over the loss of his son. It matters more that he repays the people he betrayed.”

Dorian smiled. “As always, you are brimming with wisdom.”

A snort was his response. “Maybe you could tell my advisors that. They might stop harping on me for every decision they ask me to make.”

“I shall.”

“Anyway.” Lavellan pushed off from the bookcase. “Storm Coast. Day after tomorrow. Darkspawn. Dress appropriately.”

“Ugh. Way to ruin the mood.”


	14. what became of Felix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dorian has like two friends and i wish we could have gotten a more emotional reaction to the death of one of them, so here's my take on that

Dorian sat at his desk, staring blankly at the letter held loosely in his grasp. They’d only just returned from the Storm Coast when a courier had handed the letter over. Dorian hadn’t even had the chance to change out of his traveling clothes. At least, he’d waited to read the letter until he was in his room.

There was a knock at his door, followed by Lavellan pushing it open. “Dorian, I have something for—what is it?”

Dorian jerked, quickly composing himself. “A letter regarding Felix. He went to the Magisterium. Stood on the senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial, I’m informed.” The words rolled easily off his tongue, did not snag on the frayed edges of his emotions. “No news on the reaction, but everyone back home is talking. Felix always was as good as his word.”

But Lavellan was watching him intently, as he always did, expression frustratingly inscrutable. When Dorian finished, Lavellan tilted his head, brow furrowed. “Was?”

Dorian took a breath. “He’s dead. The Blight caught up with him.”

Lavellan’s eyes widened. “Dorian.”

Dorian waved him off. “He was ill, and thus on borrowed time, anyhow.” He noticed his hand trembling and set the letter on the desk.

“Dorian, I’m sorry. I know…” Lavellan sighed. “I know that doesn’t help.”

Dorian stared down at the letter, the horrible words hidden in Mae’s delicate scrawl. He could not bring himself to look at Lavellan.

“Felix used to sneak me treats from the kitchens when I was working late in his father’s study. ‘Don’t get into trouble on my behalf,’ I’d tell him. ‘I like trouble,’ he’d say.” He chuckled weakly. “If only more mages in the Imperium were like him.” He felt the lump swelling in his throat.

Lavellan’s hand fell on Dorian’s shoulder and pulled him up into an embrace. Dorian froze for a moment, mind unhelpfully skittering back to the last time they had been close like this, when they had kissed. Lavellan’s arms tightened around him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, lips brushing Dorian’s ear.

Dorian’s fingers curled into Lavellan’s tunic. “Felix was always a better man than me. Not nearly as handsome, of course, but…” He let out a shaky exhale. “He wasn’t much in the way of magical talent, but he would have done so much good for the Imperium.”

One of Lavellan’s hands moved in soothing circles against his back. “I’m sorry I didn’t know him better.”

Dorian buried his face in Lavellan’s neck. Lavellan’s hair was damp and carried the mellow, woodsy scent of his soap. He breathed it in and let the tears come.


	15. bad news for the Wardens

“So the Wardens have been tricked into thinking they’re dying by Corypheus—the first darkspawn, which the Wardens have still somehow not managed to kill—and are now planning to do something inexplicably stupid with blood magic.” Dorian spun his ring around his finger. “Fascinating.”

Blackwall glared at him across the campfire. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, mage.”

Dorian opened his mouth to retort, but Lavellan cut him off. “Not now, the pair of you. I’m not in the mood.”

“Apologies, Inquisitor,” Blackwall grumbled.

“Yes, yes, sorry.”

Lavellan continued shuffling through his stack of requisition requests, making notes. He kept running the feathered end of his quill over his lips in a very distracting manner.

“Still, bad news for the Wardens, yeah?” Sera said. “How’s your head, Blackwall? Coryphepus got hooks in you?”

“No. I haven’t had issue with the Calling.”

“Odd,” Dorian said. “Out of _all_ the Wardens in southern Thedas, _you_ don’t hear it?”

Blackwall shrugged. “Maybe because I wasn’t with the other Wardens when it started. At least now that I know, I’ll be prepared if it happens.”

“Let’s just be grateful Blackwall’s one less Warden we have to worry about,” Lavellan muttered.

“Oh, I think Blackwall still gives us _plenty_ to worry about.”

Lavellan shot him a dark look. “Unless you want to sleep outside tonight…”

Dorian coughed, looking away, knowing Lavellan was not one for idle threats. Sera laughed as Blackwall smirked at him. He scowled.

Lavellan handed the orders over to the requisitions officer. “I’m turning in. Get some rest. We’re dealing with that wyvern and the Red Templars tomorrow.”

Sera gave him a mock salute.

He pointed at Dorian, then Blackwall. “ _Don’t_ let me catch you arguing, or I’ll let Sera do as she likes to you.”

As Sera cackled, Dorian exchanged a look with Blackwall, a silent truce. Lavellan stepped into his tent.


	16. last resort of good men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update. i went out of town last week with my parents for an important anniversary, but now we're back

“Lavellan, good to see you. But then, I always enjoy when I’m able to look at you.”

Lavellan’s lips twitched, but instead of replying in kind, his expression folded into a frown. “Dorian… I have a letter for you.”

Dorian raised a brow. “Oh?” He wondered what correspondence the Inquisitor would deliver personally. “Is it a naughty letter? Some humorous proposal by some Antivan dowager?”

“Not… exactly.” Lavellan wouldn’t look him in the eye. His fingers toyed with a folded piece of paper. “It’s from your father.”

“My father.” Well, that explained Lavellan’s reticence. But Maker’s ass, his _father_? That was the last thing Dorian expected. “And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?”

Lavellan peered at him through his eyelashes. It wasn’t his usual blank look of consideration. He seemed almost… wary.

“A meeting,” Lavellan finally said.

“Show me this letter.”

* * *

Dorian had dedicated the last three days to drinking. He had yet to reach the blackout stupor that would allow him to forget the confrontation with his father, but damn if he wasn’t going to keep trying. Bull had joined him for a bit, and then Varric, until Dorian had retreated to a secluded table on the second floor. Maybe it was pathetic, but he didn’t care for anyone’s company just then. He wanted to wallow in peace.

Well, maybe there was _one_ person whose company he would enjoy, he thought as Lavellan approached his table. In fact, there was one person whose company he had been hoping for these past few days.

“Lavellan, so you’ve finally decided to join me. Been busy?” Dorian knew he sounded petulant, but he felt neglected. Lavellan had not neglected him, of course, he had other responsibilities. It just felt that way. Especially given Dorian’s precarious emotional state.

“I—yes. There’s been some trouble with my clan.”

Dorian felt like an ass. Well, at least he was already drunk.

“But that’s not what I came to talk about.” He took a seat and passed over a wine bottle.

Dorian marveled at the label. “Agreggio Pavali? Where in the world did you find this?” It was a good year too.

Lavellan shrugged, brandishing a pair of wine glasses. “I stumbled across an old wine cellar after a fight I had with Solas yesterday.”

Dorian filled their glasses with a generous amount, savoring the rich flavor.

“I am sorry for not joining you sooner. I meant to.”

“I understand. Your clan.”

“Yes, well, that is not… the only reason.” He took a deep gulp of his wine. “I confess I have… struggled with… what to say. That is, the issue of being mistreated by one’s parents is not one I’m familiar with.”

“Oh? There is some form of suffering the elf does _not_ know?”

Lavellan leveled a look at him.

Dorian grimaced. “I’m sorry. That was… uncalled for.”

Lavellan watched him for a long moment, before his lips slid into a wry grin. “I’ll let it pass… this time. It is not untrue, in any case. Whatever their faults, my sister and I never doubted our parents’ love for us.” He winced. “I’m sorry. I’m sure that is not what you want to hear. This is why—”

“No. Tell me about them. I want to hear.”

Lavellan raised a doubtful brow at him.

Dorian chuckled. As if he would pass up any opportunity to learn more about the man. “Truly. Distract me for a bit. Give me some vicarious thrill.”

Lavellan snorted. “Fine. This once. But if it doesn’t make you feel better, don’t blame me.” He cleared his throat and refilled his glass. “My father was a warrior, my mother a mage. They served as a defenders for the clan. Their names were Tassen and Ayane.

“My father…” He huffed a laugh. “He did not quite know what to do with two precocious mage children. I think he hoped to have at least one child without magic. He wasn’t born Dalish, you see. He was a city elf, taken in by the clan after falling in love with my mother. The clan had settled near a city, and one day he got into a fight with some merchants. My mother saved him, single-handedly, then healed his wounds.” He sighed. “She loved to tell us that story.

“When my sister and I couldn’t sleep, our father would play the lyre for us, and sing. He would carve little halla figurines for all the children. He taught me how to barter, how to wield a sword, to never be afraid of shems. My mother taught me battle magic, as well as potions and rune crafting. She made sure we both knew how to take care of our weapons. As children, my sister and I were very competitive, and she constantly had to patch our clothes. Every evening, she’d embroider charms in them to protect us. Whenever we slept, my sister and I were always between them. My mother made this delicious apple cake for our birth days, and my father braided flowers into our hair for celebrations.”

He fell silent, looking out the window. His fingers played with the stem of his wine glass. “My parents were fiercely loyal to the clan. That was the one thing they instilled in us. The well-being of the clan came before all else. Whatever our differences, my sister and I have always held to that.”

“You didn’t begrudge them for it?”

Lavellan raised a brow. “Should I have?”

“Duty before anything else—that means even family, doesn’t it?”

“The clan is family. Without it, we would not have the life we do. What matters is to preserve our way of living as long as we can. The elvhen have lost too much. If there are some who must sacrifice to ensure the safety of all, why should it not be me? It is a worthy enough cause.”

“That is what your parents told you?”

“They did not have to tell us. They showed us. After living so many years, serving the clan is what gives me fulfillment. It is an honor. And it gives me… some direction to put my anger in.” He sipped his wine.

“Your parents… they…”

“They’re dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It was many years ago. And the memories we made together when they were alive are good ones.”

“What would they think of you, as Inquisitor?”

He sighed. “It’s hard to say. I’m sure they would be proud, and also worried. My mother would find Leliana delightful. Aside from that… they would probably be surprised.”

“I imagine any parent would be shocked to see their child in such circumstances.”

“Well, yes, but I meant about you. Our relationship.”

“Oh? That you tolerate a Vint so well?”

Lavellan rolled his eyes. “I more than tolerate you, Dorian.” He hesitated, meeting Dorian’s eyes, almost searchingly. “You must know that.”

Dorian coughed and took a sip from his glass. He was either too drunk or not drunk enough to handle this. “And what would your parents have to say about me?”

“Hmm. My father, for good or ill, would probably try to befriend you. I’m not sure you would enjoy it, though. He would insist on sparring with you, teaching you how to whittle. He’d be baffled with how unnecessarily extravagant your clothes are and affronted by how lazy and decadent your life is.”

Dorian scoffed. “I live in a drafty castle in the mountains of _Ferelden_. You can’t call my life decadent.”

Lavellan smirked. “Nothing to say about the lazy comment, I see.”

“Hmph. What of your mother, then?”

“She’d probably find you amusing, but I doubt you’d get along with her very well. She wouldn’t approve of your personality.”

“You should know my charms do not work on just men.”

Lavellan chuckled. “I do know.” His expression grew serious. “Regarding your father, there is one thing I wanted to say.”

“That you had a Tevinter magister in your sights and you regret not killing him when you had the chance?”

Lavellan’s lips twisted into some imitation of a smile. “I would have, if I thought it would make you feel better. But no. I wanted to say that your father was wrong.”

Dorian sighed into his wine. “Yes, I know.”

“No, _he_ was wrong. Not just about the blood magic—although especially that—but just, about you. He shouldn’t have wanted to change you. There wasn’t anything you could have done because it wasn’t your responsibility to make your own father _like_ you.”

Dorian stared at him, wide-eyed. To his immense shock, Lavellan reached over and grasped his hand.

“Your father was wrong. It wasn’t because of anything you did. It was his decision. He allowed his prejudices to rule him. You didn’t deserve what he did to you, and none of it was your fault.”

Dorian gaped at him. He struggled to swallow past the lump rising in his throat. “Inquisitor, you’re going to make me cry.”

Lavellan’s expression was soft, tender in a way Dorian had never seen. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“It’s the alcohol, you know. I’m terribly drunk. I can’t be held responsible for what happens.”

“I know.”

Lavellan did not let go of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i thought about doing the confrontation with halward over and over, and i might still eventually one day, but this time i figured everyone's done a re-write of that scene and i really wanted to just get to the bits afterward when lavellan was comforting dorian
> 
> and with yuo it is actually more in character for him to stay back and let dorian deal with his father on his own becuz he doesnt know halward or their relationship and has josephine's voice in his head telling him not to provoke an international incident and as he says he knows fuck all about dealing with shitty parents and in the moment had no clue what he could say that would make the situation better or worse and dorian's an adult who can handle his own business anyways.....
> 
> anyway if you were expecting the confrontation, sorry, but i hope you still enjoy the rest


	17. familial obligations

“How is your clan?”

“Don’t distract me,” Lavellan grumbled, hand hovering over the chess pieces. His eyes squinted in concentration, and it was clear he hadn’t had much sleep. Dorian felt bad, but Lavellan _had_ asked him to play.

Lavellan finally moved his piece and leaned back in his chair with yawn. “What was that?”

“Your clan? You said there was trouble.”

“Oh, yes. That’s settled. For now.”

“Hmm.” Dorian considered the board carefully before moving his knight. Lavellan frowned at him. “What was the trouble?”

Lavellan folded his arms, glaring at the board. “They’d settled near a city, away from any major rifts. My Keeper sent a letter, asking for aid with some bandits that were harassing them. Not uncommon for Dalish, unfortunately, but these were in larger numbers than normal, and she was hesitant to move the clan, since they’d just found someplace relatively safe.”

“But you got it taken care of?”

He nodded, stifling another yawn. “Leliana sent out some agents, helped the clan chase off the bandits. After some investigation, she found they were hired by the local duke. No idea why yet, but her agents will keep tabs on the situation.”

“A duke is conspiring against your clan? For what possible purpose?”

“Don’t know.” Lavellan finally made his move. “Could be as simple as not wanting elves near his city. He could have been pressured by the city council or the merchants, worried about trade. Might think the Dalish are somehow responsible for all this with our wild, heathen magics.”

Dorian toyed with one of Lavellan’s pieces he’d captured earlier. “If that’s the situation, I’m surprised you didn’t go dashing back to the Free Marches yourself.”

Lavellan pinched the bridge of his nose. “I almost did. It took an hour for Josephine and Leliana to talk me down. It’s still incredibly tempting.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I trust my Keeper, and Leliana’s people, to handle it, but it hasn’t allowed me a restful night’s sleep.”

Dorian looked at him sharply. “Demons?”

Lavellan grunted and reached for a pawn.

“It’s my turn.”

“Ugh. Take it then.”

He moved his mage and took Lavellan’s last tower. “I understand Vivienne’s a rather accomplished potion maker. Why not ask her to make you a sleeping draught?”

Lavellan glared at him. “I can make my own potions. And I know how to deal with demons.”

“It wasn’t my intention to suggest otherwise. I just hate to see you looking so… poorly.”

“Yes, a shame,” he said flatly. “Are you going to move?”

“I just did.”

“Oh.”

Dorian watched him ponder his next move, rubbing the scar over his nose. It was almost… cute. Not that he would ever utter such a thing anywhere Lavellan could hear.

Dorian cleared his throat, crossing his legs. “That wasn’t a flirtation, by the way. Or not just one. It genuinely bothers me to see you so troubled. Is there nothing I can do?”

Lavellan looked at him for along moment, blank, as if there was something about Dorian he had to reassess. It had been a while since Lavellan had looked at him like that. It was just as unnerving as he remembered.

Eventually, Lavellan shook his head. “No. But thank you, Dorian. It is nice to know I can… depend on you.” He moved his queen. “Check.”

“Wait, what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late post. also will not be posting next week becuz of thanksgiving. sorry to leave you with a short one but the next one will be longer


	18. confrontation with Giselle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait. i was out of town and then it took me forever to get this chapter how i liked it. an extra special thanks to my beta [A_Lesbian_With_Pink_Hair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Lesbian_With_Pink_Hair/pseuds/A_Lesbian_With_Pink_Hair) for helping me make it as good as it is

“What’s going on here?”

Dorian’s shoulders tensed. _Kaffas_. He hadn’t wanted Lavellan to see this. It was hardly the first time Mother Giselle had cornered him to expound on his many and varied faults, but he hadn’t wanted to turn it into a production. Lavellan had enough to deal with, and Dorian would _not_ be the one to whine to him about Chantry busybodies. He could handle a few close-minded Southerners on his own.

Still, Giselle was persistent if nothing else, he supposed it was only a matter of time before Lavellan caught wind. Better to get it over with.

“It seems the Revered Mother is concerned about my undue influence over you,” Dorian scoffed. As if anyone had the ability to influence Lavellan, unduly or otherwise.

Lavellan raised a brow, turning his attention to Mother Giselle. His bland expression was difficult to read. There was no telling which direction his mood would shift.

Giselle gave a respectful dip of her head. “It is just concern. Your Worship, you must know how this looks.”

Lavellan propped his hands on his hips, expression hardening. “Explain it to me.”

“This man is of Tevinter. His presence at your side, the rumors alone…”

Dorian’s stomach clenched. Always with the bloody rumors. He should have expected they would follow him to the south. Not that Lavellan was the type to put stock in rumors, but Dorian had worked too hard to earn Lavellan’s companionship to risk some insidious whispers coming between them.

“Just because he’s from Tevinter?” Lavellan asked. An undercurrent of amusement tinged his words, catching Dorian off-guard. “And that’s the _only_ problem people have with him?” His gaze caught Dorian’s, mirth dancing in his eyes.

Dorian huffed. “You know, it’s in poor form to insult someone when you’re coming to their defense.”

“Have I?” His expression slid to careful blankness as he turned back to Mother Giselle. “Come to someone’s defense?”

As if sensing Lavellan’s disapproval, Giselle hastened to say, “I’m fully aware that not everyone from the Imperium is the same.”

Feeling more confident that Lavellan was on his side, Dorian allowed his frustration to break through. “How kind of you to notice. Yet still you bow to the opinion of the masses.”

Giselle narrowed her eyes at him. “The opinion of the masses is based on centuries of evidence. What would you have me tell them?”

The truth, it seemed, was too much to expect.

Lavellan rolled his eyes and waved his hand in dismissal. “I’ve no interest in the concerns of the Chantry, Mother Giselle.”

She sighed. “I am aware of that.”

“Then what’s the point of this?”

Her hands clasped in front of her, as if making a final plea. “With all due respect, you underestimate the effect this man has on the people’s good opinion.”

That snapped the last of Lavellan’s patience. “With all due respect,” he sneered, “ _you_ overestimate how much I care about the people’s opinion. So how’s this for truth? I have judged Dorian, more harshly even than you, and found him to be reliable and trustworthy. It is because of him we were able to secure the mages at Redcliffe. He has been instrumental in routing the Venatori and exerting influence in Tevinter. If, at any point, there are _legitimate_ concerns about his loyalty, I will deal with it personally.

“Now, do you think perhaps the word of their Herald, endorsed by a Revered Mother, might have an _effect_ on the people’s opinion?”

Giselle gaped at him, before recovering from her astonishment. “I… see.” She coughed. “I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor, only to ask after this man’s intentions. If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both.”

Dorian watched her make a swift retreat, feeling a mix of bemusement and awe. A few other library-goers were eyeing them surreptitiously, no doubt having watched the exchange since Lavellan’s arrival. Wherever their Inquisitor went, there was usually something to see.

Lavellan growled in Elvish under his breath, running an agitated hand through his hair. He turned to Dorian. “How are you?”

Dorian chuckled. “No need to worry. It takes more to get to me than thinly veiled accusations.”

“And how often do you deal with these… accusations?”

Dorian debated lying for half a second, before discarding the idea immediately. Lavellan wouldn’t like that he’d kept this from him, but it was out now, and Lavellan would like it even less to know Dorian blatantly lied to him.

He affected an abashed smile. “More than anyone tells you. No one knows their own reputation.”

“Until someone helpfully informs them,” Lavellan replied dryly.

“There is that.” He cleared his throat. Since Lavellan did not seem interested in chastising him, he continued, “She meant well, if that’s of any concern.”

“It’s not.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll talk to Josephine. You shouldn’t have to have to deal with this harassment.”

And that was the last thing Dorian wanted, to be the man using his connection to the Inquisitor for personal favors. Lavellan would think nothing of it, but Dorian knew how it would look, give credence to the “concerns” of Mother Giselle and her ilk. The people could say what they liked about him, but Lavellan didn’t need that sort of undermining.

“While I’m flattered to see you so offended on my behalf, that really isn’t necessary. The good Mother is hardly a threat.”

Lavellan did not waver. “You’re a valued member of the Inquisition. You’ve earned your place here, and I don’t appreciate having the people I’ve put my faith in disrespected.”

Dorian smiled, touched, then hesitated. Lavellan tilted his head in question, ears perked. _Best get it over with_ , Dorian thought with a sigh. He didn’t think Lavellan would react too badly, but one never knew with these things. Regardless, Lavellan had a right to know.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but the assumption in some corners is that you and I are… intimate.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes. “Oh, is that all?” he drawled. “And here I was worried they’d think we were performing blood rituals together.”

Dorian white-knuckled onto a thread of hope. “Then the rumors don’t bother you?”

Lavellan scoffed. “Dorian, the amount of slander and gossip Josephine already has to contend with just due to me being a Dalish mage…” He grimaced, shaking his head. “The idea that I might be sleeping with any member of my Inner Circle is, frankly, the least scandalous thing I have to worry about.”

Then the idea didn’t repulse him, at least. That was… something. Dorian felt the tight curl of anxiety in his gut relax.

Lavellan’s gaze turned on him, sharp. “Do they bother you? The rumors?”

Dorian couldn’t help but laugh. “What? To have people think I’ve seduced one of the most powerful men in Thedas? I should be honored.”

Lavellan grumbled, folding his arms, and Dorian caught a faint blush on his cheeks. Fascinating! All their flirting and _that_ was the comment that would warrant a blush? It was… charming.

Dorian leaned against the library’s railing, looking over the man before him. It had been quite a journey to make it to this point—from getting sent to the future, to dealing with his father. Dorian could not put to words everything he felt for Lavellan, but there was one thing he knew.

“Perhaps it’s odd to say but… I think of you as a friend, Lavellan. I have precious few friends. I didn’t think to find one here.”

Lavellan went very still, eyes wide and unblinking. “I—”

“Don’t speak.” For all his exuberance, Lavellan was a private person who held his vulnerability close to his chest, and Dorian had no desire to force a confession from him. He may be a coward for fearing Lavellan’s response, but he would say this, at least. “Allow me to say I’ll stand beside you—against Corypheus, my countrymen, or spurious rumor—so long as you’ll have me.”

Dorian could not read Lavellan’s expression. Not careful blankness, not quite surprise. But he stared at Dorian like he was trying to read his soul.

“Well, I could use a drink,” Dorian said, to break the tension, if nothing else—this was why he detested confessions—but as he turned away, Lavellan caught his arm. His grip was firm and hot through Dorian’s sleeve, and he had to repress a shiver.

“Dorian, there’s something I need to tell you.” He glanced around, then pulled Dorian behind a bookshelf, away from the last lingering eyes.

“Yes?” Dorian said, trying not to let his heart rate get ahead of him.

But Lavellan hesitated. His brow folded in consternation, ears twitching in a way that belied anxiety. “I—”

Dorian waited.

His eyes moved restlessly over Dorian’s face, as if searching for something. Eventually they settled on his collarbone, and Lavellan released a long sigh. Softly, he said, “I just want to say, I consider you a friend as well. One I cherish.” His grip on Dorian’s arm tightened, then both his hands moved to rest on Dorian’s shoulders.

He looked into Dorian’s eyes, stealing his breath. At times, Dorian was reminded that this was a man who’d looked death in the face and walked away victorious. Lavellan had a soul that burned, and under that intense scrutiny, Dorian feared being consumed.

“I meant what I said to Mother Giselle. I do trust you. I appreciate everything you’ve given to the Inquisition, and I would have you at my side. Don’t doubt that.”

Warmth swelled in Dorian’s chest, and he found himself speechless. _Cherish_. That was… far more than he expected. And Dorian knew Lavellan was not in the practice of saying things he did not mean.

“That means… much to me,” he finally managed.

Lavellan nodded, hands falling from Dorian’s shoulders. He took a step back, clearing his throat. “I was—I was on my way to see Leliana, but I believe Varric’s expecting me for Wicked Grace tonight. Will I see you there?”

“Of—of course.”

He nodded again, then slipped past Dorian. A sheaf of his hair brushed over Dorian’s shoulder, leaving him with soft, woodsy smell of his soap amid the dusty paper and vellum of the bookshelves. He watched Lavellan ascend the stairs to the rookery and lowered himself into a chair. He picked up a book at random, turning it over in his hands.

The warmth in his chest had turned to something fluttering, and Dorian could feel heat in his face. He sat there, book closed, in the light of the small window for a long time, running Lavellan’s words through his head again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if you were expecting them to get together this chapter, but it is tagged slow burn, so not yet! regardless, i hope you enjoy it as much as i do
> 
> also i drew some art of yuo you can see on my tumblr [here](http://fanoftheages.tumblr.com/post/180895580661/anyway-it-took-me-3-billion-years-but-i-finally)


	19. a secret gift

“Dorian.”

“Maker’s breath!” Dorian startled so suddenly his book slipped from his hands and tumbled to the floor. He glared over his shoulder at the smirking elf who had come up behind his chair without warning. “How many more times will you insist on doing that?”

Lavellan chuckled. “Only as many as it takes to stop being fun. Anyway, I have a surprise for you.”

“And why should I be interested in whatever that is?” Dorian grumbled, retrieving his book. He dusted off the cover and smoothed the pages.

“Well, I’m heading out to Crestwood again tomorrow, and considering what happened last time—with the spiders—I thought I’d take Bull instead.”

“Very considerate of you.” Dorian was still bitter about the spiders; Blackwall refused to let it go.

“But I don’t want you to be too bored while I’m gone, so…” He looked at Dorian expectantly. “I figure I’d give you something to keep you entertained.”

Dorian felt an obnoxious flutter under his breastbone and cleared his throat. “Very well, then.”

“Excellent. Come with me.” Lavellan took his hand and dragged him off.

The firm grip of Lavellan’s warm, gloved hand around his own sent a pleasant tingle up Dorian’s arm. He thought, as he frequently had since the night of Haven’s attack, of the kiss. Lavellan had not brought it up, so neither had Dorian. He feared making things awkward, or worse, hearing the truth of what he suspected.

Lavellan had said it himself: he had almost died. The kiss was a result of coming off the high of adrenaline and fear. An impulse.

Dorian had hoped, cautiously, that it would mean a progression of their relationship, but it seemed that was not the case. Lavellan still occasionally flirted with him, which was hardly unpleasant, but had yet to give any indication of interest in something more. Not only that, there was something in his behavior that belied uncertainty.

Dorian did not want to press. While Lavellan appreciated straightforwardness, Dorian was hesitant to unbalance the stability they’d reached. Especially considering how long it had taken them to get there.

If it was really important, Lavellan would tell him in his own time. In the meantime, Dorian should stop acting like a love-addled fool and appreciate what he had.

Lavellan led him down a flight of stairs off Josephine’s office. Dorian looked around, intrigued; he had not yet ventured to this part of the castle.

“You know, I’m not opposed to finding a nice, dark corner to have my way with you, but I did assume this surprise would be of physical value.”

Lavellan scoffed. “Afraid I haven’t found any corners suitable for that, but—” he smirked at Dorian over his shoulder “—I think you’ll like this better, anyway.”

_Better? Well._

They came out into a large room, with a dusty rug and broken sconces. Possibly a dining hall once. On the other side of the room was a door. Lavellan released his hand to reach for the knob.

“I happened upon this when I was avoiding Cassandra the other day. I thought you would appreciate it.”

Inside was a short hallway, lined with books. At the end, a study tower, with a ladder to reach the highest shelves. Open on the desk, a giant tome, its pages covered in some ancient text.

As Dorian took in the sight, Lavellan leaned against one of the bookshelves. “I figure this would make a good addition to the library, but of course, I don’t have the time to catalogue and archive everything myself. But I know you like dusty old things like this, and you’re always complaining about the Chantry propaganda in the library. Hopefully, this will provide you some variety.”

For a moment, all Dorian could do was stare at him. The damn fluttering was back. _No, don’t read too much into it_ , Dorian told himself. Lavellan was just being nice, and thoughtful, and probably still felt bad about the spiders. It didn’t necessarily _mean_ anything that Lavellan had put so much thought into showing him the room. They were friends; friends did things like this for each other. Didn’t they?

Dorian cleared his throat. “Thank you for the surprise. It will be nice to work in a space _not_ filled with the squawking of birds and errant feathers.” He summoned a veilfire to eat up the cobwebs while leaving the books untouched.

Lavellan smirked. “And far away from any spider-adjacent mishaps.”

“Enough about the spiders,” Dorian pleaded.

Lavellan arranged his features into something at least superficially chastened. “I am glad you like it.” He stepped forward, placing his hand over Dorian’s on the desk. “I… hoped you would.”

Dorian’s heart tripped in his chest. It was always a little overwhelming when Lavellan stood close to him like this. He could see the faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the minute gestures of his ears, smell the scent of earth Lavellan carried with him. In the bowels of the castle, sound swallowed by stone and dust, it felt as if it were just the two them, alone in the world.

Before Dorian could decide what to do with the opportunity, a small frown marred the ink between Lavellan’s brows. There it was, the uncertainty. Lavellan pulled his hand away, taking a step back.

“In any case, I need to prepare for the trip, so I’ll leave you to your books.” Lavellan peered at him through his lashes, expression almost hopeful, before turning and leaving the hidden study.

Dorian took a seat in the old chair, the wood groaning under his weight. So perhaps the interest in more wasn’t one-sided. Lavellan flirted with Bull, with Blackwall, even sometimes with Varric, but he hadn’t kissed any of _them._ And he did not, to Dorian’s knowledge, offer to help them bathe or share with them specially pilfered wine. So perhaps Dorian was not reading too much into Lavellan’s behavior.

But something was holding Lavellan back. Dorian had no idea what it could be. Well, he had suspicions, chiefly the fact that he was human, an Altus from Tevinter. He had thought—hoped—they had moved past that. Lavellan seemed to genuinely trust him, called him a friend, had gone so far as to defend him from a nosy Chantry mother. But if that wasn’t the reason, Dorian had no idea.

For however well he and Lavellan got along, he still knew frustratingly little about him. The man was as tight-lipped as they came, always just stopping himself from revealing anything too personal. Any information he gave about his clan was vague, and he shied away from sharing details about his past.

Dorian knew what alcohol Lavellan preferred, his shade of humor, that he could eat an entire platter of pastries in a matter of minutes. He was not an early riser, could wield most blades with some manner of proficiency, went without shoes whenever possible, and took personal care of his armor and clothing. Lavellan was slow to trust and quick to anger, but he cared, wholly and deeply, about people, and took his responsibilities seriously. He had cultivated knowledge of the world from his clan’s travels, knew multiple languages, had a vast understanding of magical theory, and possessed an intense interest in new things.

Dorian knew Lavellan, but there was always an arms-length of distance Lavellan kept between himself and others. No one was allowed too close. He did not divulge insecurities or share confidences, rarely gave explanations for the decisions he made, and would entertain no line of questioning regarding his life prior to the Inquisition.

Whatever internal machinations or complex reasoning was keeping Lavellan from pursuing his interest in Dorian was beyond Dorian’s understanding of the man.

He sighed, flipping through a few pages of the large book. The text seemed like it might be a cobble of ancient Tevene and some obscure dialect of Trade. It would certainly pass the time while Lavellan was away. Perhaps Dorian could use that time to also sort out his own feelings.


	20. Freemen

The library door banged open. “Dorian! I have to speak to you. You’re not going to believe this.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow as Lavellan approached, clearly in a state about something. His hair was windswept, and he was still clad in mud-splattered armor. Or at least, Dorian hoped it was mud.

“Lavellan, how did it go with Solas’s spirit friend?”

“What? Oh, that. Poorly. But that’s not important right now! Have you heard of these Freemen of the Dales?”

“If that’s something you encountered on your recent excursion, then no, because, as you recall, I did not go with you.”

Lavellan began to pace, ears pressed tight to his head in agitation. “These ‘Freemen’ shems,” he growled. “They’re deserters of the Orlesian forces. Now that they’re apparently tired of dying for their nobility, they’re seeking ‘autonomy.’ They want to build a settlement. They think the Dales are _owed_ to them just because they’ve bled on them a little. It’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard!”

Well, that explained Lavellan’s mood. Dorian had, shamefully, known very little about the history of elves outside the Imperium—and what he did know had come from biased sources. But being at Lavellan’s side had opened his eyes to a great many truths.

Lavellan did not lecture, but he never let slip an opportunity to remark on bigotry or correct misconceptions. He frequently interjected with wry comments on the state of elven oppression or a human’s hypocrisy. He held great contempt for the Chantry and human nobility and was very clear as to why. Not to mention the wealth of information Dorian gleaned just from overhearing Lavellan’s arguments with Solas.

“I imagine that must have been frustrating,” Dorian said neutrally.

“I almost couldn’t believe it when Harding told me, but honestly I’m not really surprised by anything shems do anymore. My only consolation is that, because they always attack us, I get to kill _a lot_ of them.”

“Silver linings,” Dorian said lightly, almost pitying the poor bastards who would draw such a malicious expression to Lavellan’s face.

“Ugh, it’s no good. I’m still way too pissed off about this. Bull hasn’t gone out with the Chargers, has he?”

“Er, no, I don’t believe so.”

“Good. I need to hit something.” With that, Lavellan jumped over the balcony railing, as he had taken to doing when he was too impatient to take the stairs. The resulting crash and string of curses suggested his landing on Solas’s desk was not a graceful one.

A few library-goers exchanged concerned glances, but otherwise nobody reacted. Dorian supposed they were all too used to their Herald’s antics by now. Many likely viewed Lavellan as an unorthodox leader, but at least Skyhold was never boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i won't be updating for the next couple of weeks due to the holidays, but after that, we'll get back to it!


	21. a wicked grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're back! hope y'all had a good holiday season, you're in for some drama

“Sparkler! Glad you could join us.”

Dorian took a seat beside Cassandra, across from Lavellan. “Well, you know there’s nothing I enjoy more than losing coin to you, Varric.”

 “Or to the rest of us,” Blackwall remarked.

Dorian ignored him. “Cassandra, it’s rare of you to join us.”

“Yes, well.” She fidgeted in her seat. “I thought it might be… fun.”

A muffled snort across the table drew Dorian’s attention to Lavellan. He smirked. “Varric is blackmailing her.”

As Cassandra spluttered denials, Dorian sighed. “This isn’t about that book, is it?”

Varric laughed, distributing cards. “Now, now, I just thought a friendly game of cards would help the Seeker relax.”

Cassandra glared at him. “No game of cards played with you would count as friendly, Varric.”

“That’s true enough,” Blackwall said.

“And yet you play with us willingly, Hero.”

“We all have our weaknesses.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and looked at his cards. Hm, possibly a decent hand. He might actually stand a chance, if the look on Cassandra’s face was any indication.

As Varric asked after their progress in the field—for accuracy—and Bull regaled them with tales of bloody fights, Dorian watched Lavellan. It had been a while since he’d enjoyed Lavellan’s company, and he’d tried not to feel bereft.

At that moment, Lavellan laughed at something Bull had said. Out of his armor like this, hair loose around his shoulders, flushed and tipsy, he looked relaxed. Like he’d managed to set aside his troubles for the evening.

Lavellan’s eyes met his, and Dorian blushed, embarrassed to be caught staring. He cleared his throat. “How have you been?” He winced inwardly at how awkward he sounded.

Lavellan’s expression did not change. “Fine,” he said simply, then turned his attention to Blackwall.

Dorian frowned. Then noticed Varric looking at him curiously. Not knowing what else to do, Dorian shrugged and turned back to his cards.

Bull took that round, and Varric the next two. Cassandra accused Varric of cheating, nearly upending the table in her frustration, and Lavellan continued to order drinks for everyone.

Dorian wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol making him maudlin, but it felt like Lavellan was ignoring him. Dorian had tossed out a few mild flirtations, and Lavellan hadn’t responded to any of them. He tried to tell himself it didn’t mean anything, but Lavellan was practically lounging against Bull’s prodigious arm and Dorian ached with jealousy. The only thing that assured him he wasn’t being paranoid was that Varric kept shooting shrewd looks between the two of them.

Despite his distraction, Dorian managed to win that hand. Blackwall grumbled and Bull toasted him. As Dorian drew in his winnings, something brushed against his foot and across from him, Lavellan went completely stiff.

Faculties inhibited by drink, Dorian just blinked at him, nonplussed. Lavellan did not look at him; he downed the last of his ale.

“I’m out,” he said. “Calling it a night.”

“Already, Inquisitor?” Varric asked. “It’s early, yet.”

“I’ve still got a shit ton of reports I need to read before my meeting with the advisors tomorrow.” He bid them good night, and Dorian was left to watch him make is way out of the tavern.

When he turned back, Varric was giving him a look akin to pity. Dorian didn’t know what for, but it rankled.

His mood did not improve, no matter how much he drank, so when Blackwall took the pot, he decided that was his cue. “Well, it’s been fun, but I’m going to take what’s left of my coin and spare myself any further shame.”

“You too, Sparkler? Off to get your beauty sleep?”

Dorian snorted. “If anyone here needs beauty sleep, it’s Blackwall. Good night.”

The air outside Herald’s Rest was cold, a brisk breeze whispering over the flagstones. He looked up at the Inquisitor’s tower, a faint light in the window. Before he could sink any further into melancholy, he hurried across the courtyard to his room.


	22. Dorian does not like being complicated

If was Bull. Of course it was Bull. _Naturally_.

They got along so well, after all. No one could match their enthusiasm for a fight or their ability to drink vile concoctions of alcohol. No doubt their violent predilections had them leaning the same direction in the bedroom. And, most importantly, Bull wasn’t a _shem_.

Dorian knocked back his drink, relishing the burn down his throat, and slammed the glass on the bar.

He should have seen this coming, really. Things had been off between him and Lavellan since coming to Skyhold, he could see it now.  It hadn’t happened all at once and couldn’t be blamed on any one thing—although it must have started the night of Haven’s attack, with the kiss Lavellan had since made no mention of and clearly must of have regretted.

Lavellan did not seek his company as much. He spent more time with Bull ( _of course_ ), Sera, Varric, and Cole. Which was _fine_ , really. He probably just wanted less time around humans. Dorian “got it.”

He did not take Dorian out as often, instead taking Bull ( _of course_ ). Considering Lavellan had been taking missions to the Storm Coast, Crestwood, and the Fallow Mire, Dorian could not say he was _displeased_ by this change, even if it did leave him vulnerable to Cassandra’s attempts to form a book club.

The debacle with his father had done nothing to make things easier between them. Lavellan’s flirting had nearly all but stopped after that fiasco, even if he was… softer around Dorian.

But what had Dorian expected? He’d done this dance before; sometimes you snared them, sometimes you didn’t. And what did they have between them, really? A handful of “moments” and a single kiss? Dorian was not foolish enough to think that guaranteed more, and was certainly not so naïve to _hope_ for more.

“Bit early in the day to be drinking, isn’t it?”

_Speak of the demon, and so he shall appear. (Of course.)_

Dorian glowered up at the qunari, then dropped a pointed look at the mug in his hand.

Bull laughed. “Okay, but I wasn’t gonna be drinking alone.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you,” Dorian said, waving Cabot over for a refill.

“Hmm.” Bull stared at him in that intense, uncanny way he had, then sat down beside him.

Dorian sighed, raising his glass to his lips. “I suppose I ought to offer congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Bull said. “For what?”

“You and… the Inquisitor.” That was harder to say than he thought it would be.

“Oh.” Bull laughed. “So that’s what all… _this_ is about.”

“And here I thought you’d be too much of a gentleman to rub it in,” Dorian said sourly.

“It’s not what you think, Dorian.”

“Oh, am I wrong? Because I have it on rather good authority that the Inquisitor has been visiting your quarters lately.”

“Well, that part’s right.”

“Hence the congratulations,” Dorian said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, come on, Dorian. You think the boss fucks me ‘cause he’s _in love_ with me? That he wants a _relationship_ with me?” Bull shook his head and took a large gulp of ale. “The boss has had a lot on his plate. Sometimes he needs to forget about it for a while. Anyone with eyes in their head can see the chemistry between you two. He came to me because he knew I wouldn’t make it complicated.”

“Whereas _I_ make everything complicated.”

“Well, you have to know that you do.”

“Because I’m human.”

“That’s part of it.”

“And Tevinter.”

“That’s another part.”

“What else is there?”

“Well, not all the parts are on your end.”

Dorian looked at him. “Has he talked to you about this?”

“The boss? Nah.” Bull held up his tankard for Cabot to refill. “He’s not much for talking about personal things. But he doesn’t have to.”

“Because you’re a ‘people person’?”

“I pay attention, and I know how to put two and two together.”

Dorian sighed. “So what am I supposed to do, Bull? Just sit and wait for him to work out whatever his parts are?”

“I get that it’s frustrating, and I can’t say if Boss is in the right on this. But if it’s any consolation, he’s moving in that direction.”

“So I should just sit tight and let fate take its inevitable course?”

“Well, hey, no one’s saying you _have_ to wait on him.”

“Right.”

He didn’t have to. Dorian knew that. In fact, when was the last time he’d put up with this much trouble for a man? Not since… Well, no point in thinking about _that_.

Dorian took a gulp of ale. “Thanks, Bull.”

“Hey, I’m rooting for you guys.”

At that moment, Lavellan walked into Herald’s Rest. He took a moment to scan the crowd, before spotting them. Dorian cursed when he began heading in their direction.

“Look at the pair of you. Getting the day off to a good start, I see.”

Dorian gave a sardonic grin, and Bull raised his glass in greeting.

“I hope you’ve got your good boots, Bull,” Lavellan said, leaning against the bar. “We’re going to the Fallow Mire.”

“Again?”

He shrugged. “Blackwall seems to think there’s more Grey Warden stuff to find.” His gaze flicked over to Dorian. “Unless Dorian wants to come.”

He expected Dorian to say no. Dorian was sorely tempted to disappoint him, but what would he win? A trip to the Fallow bloody Mire and the chance to hear Blackwall wax poetic about the Grey Wardens for the hundredth time, while Sera plotted stuffing their bed rolls with frogs.

“And ruin another set of good robes? Perish the thought.”

Lavellan laughed. “Well, make sure you bother Solas for me while we’re gone.” And with that, he turned and left.

“See you around, Dorian,” Bull said, giving him a slap on the shoulder that nearly knocked him from his chair.

“Right,” Dorian said. When he was alone again, he waved Cabot down for another glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the drama increases~
> 
> don't worry you'll get to find out what yuo's deal is
> 
> eventually~


	23. a spar

As Dorian was leaving the newly erected mage tower, he caught sight of Lavellan in the training ring. As if spellbound, Dorian found himself descending the battlements and making his way over. Lavellan and Krem were sparring, Krem with a sword and shield and Lavellan with a staff. Bull leaned against the fence, watching them appraisingly.

“Don’t go easy on him, Boss. Krem, watch his—”

“Quit with your mothering, Bull, you’re distracting us,” Lavellan snapped, and Krem laughed.

“Qunari don’t have mothers.”

With a sword, Lavellan was a solid, unstoppable force; with a staff, he was a whirlwind. It was like a dance, the staff a natural extension of his body. He twisted out of his opponent’s reach, striking out with bone-rattling blows and deflecting attacks with ease.

Krem handled his defense well, but he wasn’t as quick on his feet as Lavellan. He could only manage a few hits and was slowly being worn down.

Admittedly, Dorian wasn’t paying that close attention to the bout. For some ungodly reason, whenever Lavellan trained, he followed Bull’s lead and went shirtless. He maintained his gauntlets and greaves, with a red sash tied around his waist, but was bare from there up. It showed off his collection of scars and lower back tattoo. The effect was decidedly rakish and entirely obscene. His torso glistened with sweat and a faint steam rose from his pale skin from his exertion in the cold air.

Dorian was so involved in watching the flex of Lavellan’s muscles, he barely registered that the spar had ended.

Bull was making some remarks on Krem’s form, before Lavellan cut him off again. “His shield work is fine, Bull. Honestly, for claiming Qunari don’t have mothers, you sure do sound like mine did when she was training me.” Bull grumbled and Lavellan turned to Krem. “Don’t listen to him. You’ve improved a lot, your form is solid.”

“Hardly feels like it, fighting you,” Krem said, taking a drink from the water skin Bull handed him.

Lavellan laughed, wiping at his face and chest with his sash. Bruises were beginning to blossom purple on his skin. He caught Dorian’s eye and his grin sharpened. Dorian felt the combination of dread and arousal hook in his gut.

“Dorian, come here and see how Krem fares against you.”

“Oh, I think not. These are my good robes.”

“Have you got any robes that aren’t good?” Bull prodded.

Dorian glared at him.

“Come on, I know very well you haven’t been training while I’ve been away, so you’re not getting out of it.”

“Lies and slander,” Dorian said, but he was already entering the training ring, knowing Lavellan would not be swayed. He caught the training staff that Lavellan threw to him.

Dorian had come a long way from batting ineffectually at enemies with his staff. Lavellan had personally put him through the ringer until muscles he didn’t even know he had ached. It was nothing like the basic melee fighting courses he’d taken back in the Imperium for fun, to give his parents something new to disapprove of.

It was true, though, that he had let his training slide without Lavellan here. Bitterly, he wondered what did it matter if Lavellan wasn’t taking him out into the field anyway, but he wasn’t quite ready for that confrontation.

“How are you today, Cremisius?”

“Ready to kick your ass, Altus.”

“Splendid.”

They took their positions across from each other, Dorian giving a showy twirl of his staff which had Krem snorting.

Krem didn’t hit quite as hard as Lavellan did, but it was enough to feel the shock travel from his wrists up to his jaw. “Stop trying to block, Dorian, and deflect,” Lavellan called. “You’ll wear yourself out like that.”

Dorian grumbled under his breath, but did as instructed. Or tried to, at any rate. It was tricky, alternating between deflecting and attacking, keeping his eye on his surroundings, remembering his feet, watching for Krem’s tells. None of which was helped by the fact that his eyes kept getting drawn back to Lavellan, still shirtless, leaning against the fence with Bull.

Their heads were bent together, as they muttered to each other, laughing and sharing elbow jabs. Lavellan continued to watch Dorian’s form carefully, calling out instruction, but he could barely process it, so obsessed with catching every time Lavellan’s bare skin brushed against Bull’s.

In short order, Krem got inside his defense and put him on his ass, just as he said. He lay there for a moment, listening to Krem’s congratulations and admiring the clear cloudless blue of the sky. Lavellan appeared above him, hands on his hips; Dorian couldn’t parse the look on his face. Considering, perhaps, curious—or confused, like he had a question but wasn’t sure how to ask it.

They stared at each other before Lavellan finally spoke. “You’re rusty.”

“It appears so,” Dorian replied with as much as haughtiness as he could muster, lying in the dirt.

Lavellan rolled his eyes and held out a hand, which Dorian accepted. Before Lavellan could launch into his screed of everything Dorian had done wrong, a messenger appeared. “Commander Cullen asking to see you, sir.”

Lavellan’s expression soured immediately. “Is he?”

Nearly quaking in his boots, the poor boy, the messenger stuttered, “Uh, yes, p-pardon the interruption, sir, but I understand it’s of some import.”

Lavellan sighed, waving him off. “I’ll be there.” The messenger scampered. “You’re saved this time, Dorian,” he said, slapping a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “Bull, Krem, see you for drinks later?”

They bid him good day, and Lavellan made his way sullenly up the battlements to the commander’s room. Dorian watched him go, shoulder tingling where Lavellan had touched it. He put the training staff away and, with nothing better to do, headed to the library. Bull and Krem did not stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are heating up~


	24. moving forward

Dorian found Lavellan in the infirmary, being looked over by one of the rebel mages’ healers. He folded his arms, leaning against the wall. “Did your excursion to the Emerald Graves go that badly?”

Lavellan sighed. “We were ambushed by Red Templars on our way back to Skyhold, and we were out of healing potions. Thankfully, we were only a couple days out, but Cullen’s pissed; he took troops out himself to scour the pass.”

Dorian inspected his nails. “Well, that’s what you get for taking Bull out instead of me.”

“We were routing chevaliers and Templars,” Lavellan said with a shrug. “I needed extra muscle.”

“All done, Inquisitor,” the healer said. “Try to take it easy.”

“Thanks, Talwyn.” He stood from his cot and began gathering his armor.

Dorian watched him, emotions threatening to boil. “Why Bull?”

Lavellan raised a brow at him. “I needed muscle, Dorian. No offense.”

“Not for _that_ ,” Dorian spat.  The words felt ripped out of him. “I mean, why did you _choose_ him?” Lavellan’s entire body tensed, and Dorian felt a twisted sort of satisfaction. “Oh, was it supposed to be a secret?”

Lavellan turned slowly, face carefully devoid of expression. “Talwyn, give us a moment.”

“Oh, uh, certainly, Inquisitor. Of course.” The mage hurried quickly from the room, closing the door.

“Something to say, Dorian?”

Dorian pushed himself away from the wall; he wasn’t going to let himself be intimidated. “Are you going to answer my question?”

Lavellan scoffed. “I didn’t ‘choose’ anything. It’s just sex. And I don’t see how it’s any concern of yours who I have in my bed.”

“Oh, certainly, I can’t _imagine_ why I might think otherwise.”

At that, Lavellan actually flinched. In that moment, Dorian could see how tired he was, the creases under his eyes pronounced, his shoulders slumped. His hair was coming lose from its braid, his robes blood-splattered, boots still muddy from the road. Dorian felt ill. This was pathetic, desperate. He shouldn’t care this much. But he was tired of waiting; he just wanted to _know_.

“Dorian, I…” Lavellan sighed, running a hand over the shaved part of his hair. “It wasn’t my intention to…”

“To lead me on?” _But of course not. They never mean it. It’s just fun and games, it’s never supposed to_ mean _anything_.

“No. I mean, it wasn’t, but… that doesn’t mean I didn’t… mean it.” He looked down at his hands. Quietly, he said, “I didn’t expect this to happen. To feel this way. For you.”

Dorian tasted bitterness at the back of his throat. “I can’t change what I am.”

Lavellan looked up sharply. “There’s _nothing_ about you I want you to change.”

“Then…” _Then what’s wrong with me?_ he didn’t say. _What about me isn’t good enough?_

Lavellan seemed to understand his intent anyway. “Not everything is about you, Dorian.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what it is about?” he snapped.

Lavellan sighed, looking miserable. “There are… things from my past, things you don’t know, that make it… complicated. Bull offered me something uncomplicated. I should have told you about him; I’m sorry.”

“Lavellan, I want to understand. If it’s not me, why won’t you tell me?” Dorian felt on the verge of begging.

He closed his eyes. “I can’t.”

“Because you don’t trust me?” _After all this time_ …

Lavellan shook his head. “It’s not just a matter of trust. It’s not that simple.”

Dorian threw his hands in the air. “It could have been.”

“That’s not what I want from you!”

Dorian did not allow himself to flinch, did not let the sting of Lavellan’s words show. “Then what do you want?”

Lavellan scoffed, beginning to pace. “What I want. As if knowing is the issue. I’ve been trying very hard not to think about what I want. Fenedhis, Dorian, what I want isn’t something I can have. I wish—” He stopped, slumped down onto a cot, and put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Dorian. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t intend—” He sighed heavily. “You deserve better than this. I’m sorry I can’t be the one to give it to you.”

Dorian looked away. He still didn’t know Lavellan’s feelings or intentions towards him, but it seemed Lavellan wasn’t certain either. At least now it was plain that whatever he’d hoped for was beyond reach. A bitter pill, but nonetheless one he was used to swallowing. He had no desire to add to Lavellan’s distress. And regardless of whatever fantasies he’d entertained, whatever made things so complicated for Lavellan, he’d missed Lavellan’s company.

Dorian took a seat on another cot across from him. “When I said I considered you a friend, I meant it.”

“As did I,” Lavellan murmured, head still bowed.

“I also meant it when I said that I would stand by you. I _want_ to stand with you.”

His fingers curled into fists. “I want that, too.”

“Then perhaps we could… try this again? Move forward without… expectations and just… be friends?” It hurt, letting go of even that small hope, but dammit, Lavellan was his friend and Dorian wasn’t going to lose him over this.

Lavellan raised his head slightly. “I would like that.” Hesitantly, one of his hands reached for Dorian’s, lightly threading their fingers together. “I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good friend lately.”

Dorian’s heart tripped in his chest, and his fingers tightened around Lavellan’s. “I’m willing to forgive you, provided you keep being my friend.”

Lavellan finally looked at him, his expression one of relief, tinged with guilt. “Your kindness is more than I deserve.”

Dorian chuckled. “Personally, I think you could use a little more.” He hesitated, ducking his head. Lavellan looked—not small exactly, he could never be small. But worn, ragged at the edges. Up close, Dorian could see his robes were hanging more loosely than normal. Lavellan was working himself to the bone. He sighed. “I must apologize, as well. In my own selfishness, I did not see how much you were struggling.”

Lavellan’s eyebrows raised. “What’s this? Dorian Pavus showing humility?”

He sniffed. “Yes, well, if you’d be kind enough not to mention it, I do have a reputation to maintain.”

His lips, dry and chapped from travel, curved into a soft smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” With a sigh, he leaned forward, resting his head on Dorian’s shoulder. They stayed like that together, in comfortable silence, until Talwyn burst in with apologies as a construction worker was hauled in on a stretcher.


	25. favor from the first enchanter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update; my beta was disentangling herself from kingdom hearts. but we're back to business!!

Dorian was eating lunch at Varric’s table in the great hall when he saw Lavellan descend the stairs from Vivienne’s balcony. When he appeared at the bottom, Varric bid him to join them.

“You’re spending an awful lot of time with the Iron Lady these days, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan took a seat beside Dorian, setting a thick stack of letters on the chair on his other side. “Yes, she’s been helping me with some correspondence.”

“Correspondence?” Dorian asked.

An eager serving girl rushed over to serve Lavellan his preferred drink and inquire if he wanted anything that was not already set out. He waved her off and filled his plate from what was on the table.

Despite the mundane action of eating a meal, Lavellan still garnered quite a bit of attention. Visiting nobles, pilgrims, and Inquisition workers—all gathered in the great hall—looked to Lavellan while trading whispers with each other. Dorian had received his share of stares—still did, from time to time—but for Lavellan it was much worse. He was recognized nearly everywhere he went, and not everyone was discreet in their gawking. They parted and bowed like a dutiful flock, but bunched in corners, windows, and doorways to keep him in sight. Some would even come up to touch him, as if to be blessed.

Lavellan seemed to pay the fawning little mind, save for twitches of his jaw, but Dorian knew he was keenly aware. Lavellan did not do well under such constant scrutiny. He spent much time drinking, grousing to Dorian, and beating on Bull and Cullen’s recruits in the training ring.

With a sigh, Lavellan leaned back in his chair. “Back when I was just the Herald,” he said, grimacing, “I wasn’t officially in charge of anything. I was a figurehead, really. Sometimes Josephine needed to trot me out for some nobles, but mostly I just went where they needed me to be.”

“Mostly,” Varric said mirthfully. Lavellan threw a bread heel at him.

“However, now that I am properly entitled,” he continued, grimace more pronounced, “there is a wealth of responsibilities I have to actually be in charge of. Among these is corresponding with various allies—or would-be allies. Nobles, dignitaries, merchants, suppliers, et cetera.” He took a long gulp of his drink. “Now, diplomacy is not a skill I’ve ever possessed or cultivated—”

“ _No_ ,” Varric said in feigned shock. The table rattled, but Varric just chuckled and said, “Missed.”

“In an effort,” Lavellan growled, “not to undo all of Josephine’s hard work, or at the very least, not make any more work for her, I decided to seek help from someone who knows the intricacies of human politics. It’s part of why I recruited Vivienne in the first place, after all.” He shoveled the last of his stew in his mouth.

The serving girl appeared immediately at his side, asking if he required anything else. Dorian laughed at the look of deliberation on his face. If Lavellan could be counted on using the servants for one thing, it was to bring him desserts. As soon as the kitchen staff discovered their Inquisitor’s sweet tooth, they always made an abundance.

Lavellan asked if he or Varric wanted anything. Varric requested some pastry and more ale, but Dorian declined. Dessert did not differ much from the regular fare: brown and bland if Fereldan, over-seasoned and insubstantial if Orlesian. Lavellan did not seem to care so long as there was sugar at the end of his meal. Dorian had begged Lavellan to recruit some proper chefs; he had snorted and said he’d put it on Josephine’s to-do list.

“So, Vivienne’s helping you write letters,” he remarked. “And yet I haven’t heard any yelling.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes. “We do not fight. We discuss and debate, but we don’t fight. She wouldn’t tolerate that, anyway, I’ve told you.”

“You just seemed rather determined not to get along with her.”

He grumbled, running a gloved hand over his jaw. “I may have… judged her too harshly, in my initial opinion. Not that I think it unjustified, her being the Empress of bloody Orlais’s personal mage whatever, but I didn’t really give her a chance to… change my mind. I _was_ determined to dislike her, which… wasn’t fair of me.”

“Hm. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you change your mind about someone.”

Varric laughed. “He’s changed his mind about _you_ four different times now, Sparkler.”

That stung him a little, but he didn’t let it show. “Fair enough,” he admitted.

Lavellan grinned, teasing. “Yes, I gave the Tevinter Altus a chance; it’s only fair to give one to the Imperial Enchanter.”

The serving girl returned then with a tray of delicacies. Lavellan straightened in his seat, eyes alight. Dorian recalled when he first learned of Lavellan’s sweet tooth. It was in the early days of Skyhold, before his appointment. He skulked around, giving his aid to the pilgrims and suffering badgering by the advisors.

A Chantry mother had brought out a pan of sweet buns, flavored with sugared nuts and raisins. Lavellan had halted so suddenly at the sight, Cullen walked right into him. Lavellan had eaten nearly all of them before finally registering the shocked looks of the people around him, then scowled and asked the Mother after the recipe. Sera had been the only one who dared to make a comment, which had earned her a snowball in the face.

Lavellan ate his desserts with relish. After teasing Varric about his “book flirtations” with Cassandra and dropping off his letters with Josephine, Lavellan took Dorian out to the garden to play chess. It was still difficult shoving down his feelings, but Dorian had to admit it was nice having Lavellan seek his company again.

“It’s not just that Vivienne and I can be civil with each other,” Lavellan said, ten minutes into their game, apropos of nothing. “I get along with her. I wasn’t… expecting it.”

Dorian cast about for something to say, having no clue what Lavellan intended with this new conversational direction. “It is… surprising. I wouldn’t think you’d have too much in common.”

He snorted, turning one of Dorian’s captured pawns over in his hand. “We do not. Aside from our magic, which I do enjoy discussing with her. Her experiences are colored by her time in the Circle, but she is very knowledgeable—and powerful. She has a unique way of looking at things, and she views magic with the gravitas it deserves.” He fell quiet, he eyes roving over the various sprouts nurtured under Elan’s critical eye. “She reminds me of my sister.”

Dorian jerked in his seat. He could still count the number of times Lavellan mentioned his family on one hand. “Is that so?” he said, when Lavellan did not elaborate.

“Hm. Both in personality and temperament. It is… uncanny, almost. I noticed it, somewhat, when we first met: the way she carried herself, how she spoke, her smile in particular. Spending time with Vivienne, it’s even more obvious. They are both—” He paused, considering. “Conniving is not quite right. Clever, yes, and shrewd. Intuitive to the subtle connections between people and skilled at manipulating them. Not proud, necessarily, but dignified.” He paused again, a far-off look in his eye. “It is not the sort of personality I would tolerate in most people, and certainly not in humans, but… my sister has been with me my entire life. I had not realized how much I missed—just—her. With Vivienne, just having a similar presence, it is… comforting.” He sat back, sighing. “It is difficult to explain.”

“No, I understand. I’m glad you and Vivienne have become friends.”

Lavellan snorted and moved his queen. “’Friends’ may be too strong a word. But I do enjoy her company. Her wit is extremely biting.” He smirked. “Hearing what she has to say about various nobles is very cathartic.”

Dorian suppressed a twinge of jealousy as he considered his next move. That could be risky. “Indeed, it is. And have you heard from your sister lately?”

Lavellan’s eyes narrowed, good humor snuffed. “Why do you ask?”

“There was a noble giving your clan trouble, wasn’t there? I wondered how they were doing.”

To his relief, Lavellan relaxed slightly, expression softening. “Yes. There haven’t been any more problems. Leliana has some people keeping an eye on the situation. My clan is well, thank you.”

“That is good to hear.”

They played in companionable silence for a few minutes. Lavellan twisted a lock of hair around his fingers, a furrow of concentration between his brows.

“I actually did receive a letter from my sister the other day,” Lavellan said, while Dorian was weighing whether to sacrifice his queen. His expression was strange—not quite blank, almost determined.

“Oh?”

“Yes, regarding our First. You know what that is?”

“Uh, the First is next in line to be the Keeper, yes?”

“Correct.” And Dorian felt a swell of pride at the pleased crease of Lavellan’s eyes. “Our First is still young, barely 20. He has incredible potential, but still much to learn. According to my sister, he had a… mishap in his studies.” There was fondness in the amused curl of his mouth, mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes. He looked at Dorian almost shyly through his lashes. “Would you like to hear?”

As if Dorian wouldn’t give his left foot for any personal stories from Lavellan. “By all means, regale me.”

Lavellan’s smile grew satisfied. He leaned forward, chess game apparently forgotten, hands gesticulating eagerly.

Dorian sat back, listening intently. This was good. This, more than anything, proved that Lavellan still considered him a friend. He had worried their… misstep might have damaged things between them. But Lavellan still trusted him—more even than before, if he was willing to share this with Dorian.

The cold clench of fear slowly unraveled from Dorian’s gut. This was good. They were fine. Lavellan was still his friend. That was all that mattered.


	26. newest acquisition

Lavellan found him while he was in conference with Fiona and Dagna. The Inquisition had begun tracking red lyrium deposits with Varric’s lead, but actually destroying and removing the infections was proving tricky. Lavellan had ordered the mages to work with Dagna to see what could be done—to no avail, thus far.

“Dorian! I have something to show you! Fiona, Dagna, good day.”

“Inquisitor.”

“Inquisitor, hello, how’s that new gear working out?”

“It’s great. Have to give a full report later. For now—Dorian?” Lavellan’s ears pricked expectantly; he was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Of course.” Dorian stood. “If you’ll excuse me.” As Lavellan took his hand, Dorian caught Dagna whispering to Fiona, who shushed her.

Dorian knew the rumors about the two of them had not abated, even though it had become an unacknowledged fact that Lavellan and Bull were sleeping together. Since Lavellan still didn’t seem inclined to do anything about them, Dorian didn’t either. Mother Giselle, at least, continued to leave him alone.

Lavellan led him out of the castle to the stables. He was nearly skipping.

“Blackwall hasn’t finally mastered the art of bathing, has he? I may need to sit down for that.”

Lavellan snorted. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Blackwall.” He pulled Dorian down the line of stalls, housing the various horses and harts, to the last one. “Look, our newest acquisition.”

It was… large. Vaguely horse-shaped, but definitely reptilian.

“Isn’t she marvelous?” Lavellan beamed at him, eyes glittering.

“Indeed. What is it?”

“She’s a dracolisk! Wouldn’t you know, Dorian? They’re used in Tevinter. I’d only ever read about them before.” His voice was heavy with awe, eyes glued admiringly to the creature in the stall.

“They are, but I’ve never seen one in person,” Dorian replied, looking over the beast. “They’re only used by the military.”

The dracolisk stood disturbingly still, her glaring yellow eyes unblinking. Only her skeletal flanks rose and fell with each wheezing breath. She had a basin of water and what looked like half a pig hanging from a rack behind her.

“Where did you even find this…specimen?”

“Helisma track her down, can you believe it? Some desert in Orlais.” Lavellan was nearly breathless with glee.

He held out his hand to her. The dracolisk bowed her crested blue head to nuzzle his palm. Lavellan scratched under her chin and down the leathery folds of her neck. Her fearsome maw of drool-dripping fangs opened, and a pointed tongue darted out to lick Lavellan’s cheek. He giggled.

Feeling on the verge of disturbed, Dorian remarked, “You’ve made quite the impression.”

“They had some trouble bringing her in—she makes the horses and harts nervous—and I don’t think Dennet cares much for her. But she’s really magnificent.” She had her head over the stall door, pressed against Lavellan’s chest. He placed a kiss on the bony ridge above her eye; she gave a slow blink in response.

Dorian raised a brow. “Shall I give the two of you some privacy?”

“Don’t be silly, come here.” He grabbed Dorian’s hand and slapped it to her shoulder.

Dorian froze, pressed against Lavellan’s side, eye-to-unblinking-eye with the dracolisk. When he didn’t find himself immediately divested of a limb, he allowed himself to relax. Up close, he could feel the humid heat of her breath, rank with the stench of raw meat. Her skin was rough, the darker protrusions and spikes hard as stone.

“What do you think?” Lavellan watched him expectantly.

Dorian could only say, “She’s quite something.”

He grinned. “Isn’t she?” he said, with no small amount of pride. He ran his fingers down the side of her face, and her eyes grew half-lidded.

“Have you chosen a name?”

He looked contemplative for a moment, before deciding, “Banal’ras.” He smirked at Dorian. “It means shadow.”

“Suitable.”

Dorian folded his arms to lean against the stall door while Lavellan fawned over his newest mount. He was almost childish like this, enthusiasm taking years off his looks.

Dorian caught sight of one of Cullen’s messengers entering the stable. Just as the boy noticed them, taking a step with intention, Dorian glared at him and waved a hand sharply to shoo him away. The messenger paused, looking nervously between Dorian and Lavellan—who was too engrossed in his affections to notice the exchange.

Taking advantage of the messenger’s reticence, Dorian allowed some small flames to spark from his fingertips in warning. The boy paled, eyes wide, offered a hasty bow, and fled. Dorian smirked wryly.

Being a member of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle warranted him a measure of deference; he rarely felt it necessary to take advantage, outside of requests for research materials. Not too many people treated him with blatant suspicion these days, but few still knew what to do about a Tevinter mage. None of Leliana’s people cared, of course, and most of the rebel mages had gotten used to him, but the general rank and file remained cautious. No doubt many still considered him as good as a magister.

Well, Dorian didn’t mind using that reputation to help a friend. _Lavellan_ accepted him, recognized him for himself. It didn’t matter if some lowly messenger convinced himself Dorian had threatened him by trying to burn down the barn.

He turned back to find the dracolisk had draped her head over Lavellan’s shoulders as he cooed and scratched her neck. Her eyes were closed, and she made raspy, whuffing noises into his hair.

Dorian had to laugh at the sight. “You two make quite the cute couple.”

Lavellan grinned, bright and infectious. “I can’t wait to take her out. First place we’re going is the Exalted Plains. Banal’ras looks the sort to enjoy the taste of Freemen—don’t you? Yes, you do.” He kissed her right on the snout and received a tongue across the face.

Dorian snorted. “As if your enemies needed more reason to fear you. Now they’ll see you coming and know to preemptively shit themselves.”

His grin turned vicious. “That is _exactly_ my intention.” He slung an arm around Dorian’s shoulders, pulling them flush. “See, Dorian, I knew you would understand.”

In spite of himself, a blush crept of Dorian’s cheeks. “Ah, is that so?” Really, that Lavellan was so excited to show off this scaly beast to him shouldn’t have him swooning.

He gave the dracolisk a final pat, and said, “Come! Let’s head to the Rest for a drink, see if we can scrounge up Varric for a game of cards. I’m feeling lucky.”

As Lavellan all but dragged him from the stables, Dorian said, “Truly, it would be my pleasure.”


	27. aid to the People

They discovered the Dalish clan after a week of purging corpses in the Exalted Plains. The change in Lavellan’s countenance was immediate and remarkable. His ears perked up, the aggression drained from his posture, a wide, genuine smile took place on his lips. He greeted the Keeper with deference and spoke in rapid Elvish, hands gesticulating with enthusiasm.

The chaos of the Orlesian forces and undead had, not unexpectedly, affected the clan. Dorian wasn’t at all surprised when Lavellan offered the Inquisition’s help to them. Which, of course, put Sera in a sour mood.

As they headed to the plagued burial grounds, she grumbled, “You’re normally not too bad at being elfy, but you’ve really stuck your whole ass in it this time.”

Lavellan’s lips pressed together as if stifling a laugh. “I know how you feel about the Dalish, but the Inquisition is for everyone. Corypheus threatens their world, too, and they’re just as deserving help.”

“Pah! Your precious ‘People’ don’t even like you!”

Lavellan frowned, readjusting his grip on the reins. “Their problem isn’t with me, really. They don’t trust the Inquisition—which I can’t blame them for, considering how Chantry-saturated it is. I’d be pretty wary myself of an elf going around as the ‘Herald of Andraste’. But the Inquisition _is_ for everyone, no harm in taking the time to prove it.

“Besides, I’m tired of cleaning up after the fucking Orlesians who are the cause of all their own problems. This will be a nice change of pace.”

“Well, you hit the mark sometimes,” Sera agreed grudgingly. “That Proulx’s ass is begging for an arrow in it.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Blackwall commiserated solemnly.

After clearing the demons from the burial grounds, they spent several hours gathering herbs, hides, and other supplies the clan required. The final task of the day entailed chasing down a halla. Which, really, “cattle herder” wasn’t exactly among any of their lists of abilities.

“Makes me wish my clan’s halla keeper was here,” Lavellan panted, slumping in his saddle. “He’s got a way with them; I don’t know how he does it.”

“It probably doesn’t help that you’re chasing it down on your lizard,” Dorian pointed out. He, Sera, and Blackwall were all riding Dennet’s sensible mounts, and the halla did not run quite so much from any of them.

Lavellan patted his dracolisk’s neck. “Nonsense. Banal’ras is incredibly friendly-looking.”

“Easy solution: arrows,” Sera said.

“We’re not _hunting_ it,” Lavellan laughed. “It’s sacred.”

“Pft, just ‘cause it’s a little yellow. Looks like it got pissed on. I still say arrows. Make life easier.”

Of course, Lavellan did not let her use any arrows, and it was nearly dusk by the time they finally made it back to camp.

The next day, things went less well. They’d been searching for Emalien’s brother, and Dorian almost wished they hadn’t found him.

“What was there?” Sera’s voice wavered. “Because that's blood and magic and that's not good.”

“Was he trying to summon a demon?” Blackwall asked.

Lavellan did not say anything, and Dorian watched him carefully. His face was studiously blank as he studied the charred body and the effects around it. He knelt, picking up scraps of paper.

Dorian leaned in. “Is it him?” he whispered.

“He was looking for something,” Lavellan said, voice flat. “Perhaps he meant to seek help from beyond the Veil, but the blood magic caught him the wrong attention.”

“Well, that’s usually how it goes.”

“He was slighted and ambitious, and tried to reach through the Veil on a battlefield, where it’s frequent for unsettled spirits and demons linger.” Lavellan sighed. “Any powerful magic is dangerous to undertake without guidance. He was eager to prove himself, determined to restore a piece of the People’s history. More than anything, it’s just the tragedy of youthful recklessness.”

He gathered Valorin’s things and put them into his pack, then turned to his companions. “We will need to bury him.”

“Ew, no, I’m not touching that,” Sera said.

“Then I need you to collect for me a long, staff-like branch made of oak and smaller branch made of cedar.”

Her nose wrinkled. “This is for some elfy shit, isn’t it? Why not just burn him, like _normal_?”

“It is the way he would wish to be memorialized. Please, I’ll make it up to you.”

“Ugh, fine.”

“Dorian, see if you can cast some spells to cleanse the area. Blackwall, I need your help digging.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

It took several spells and complicated wards to expunge the area of any lingering magical malaise. Dorian couldn’t help but shudder. The aura of blood magic would always feel sinister to him.

Just as Blackwall and Lavellan finished the grave, Sera returned with her pieces of wood, which she dropped on the ground without ceremony. Lavellan bid them to stand back, since “it’s not technically proper for you to participate,” and lowered the body with the branches into the grave himself. Over the body he said, “Falon'Din enasal enaste,” then filled the hole with the excised earth and took from his pocket a seed. He placed it at in the center of the grave. His hands pressed into the soil, emitting a soft green light, and a small shoot bloomed between his fingers.

With that, he stood. “We’re going to find what he was looking for. From his notes, there appears to be an old shrine nearby. We will start there.”

None of them said anything, not even Sera, sensing from Lavellan’s stony expression and clipped tone that it was the not the time for remarks.

They did find it. The shrine was in the process of being pillaged by a pair of Freemen, whom Lavellan took great satisfaction in slaughtering. “Looks like Valorin was right,” he said, after breaking through the barrier to uncover the sought-after talisman.

“So that means we’re done?” Sera asked.

“We’ll return this to Emalien, but then I want to see if we can find remainder of those glyphs.”

She groaned.

Sera refused to enter the Dalish camp again, so Lavellan left her across the river with Blackwall and their mounts. Dorian went with him, but stood a respectful distance away while he approached Emalien. It was not so far he could not hear their exchange, however, and he couldn’t help but frown when Lavellan presented her with Valorin’s things, as well as what he had sought.

“Can’t help but notice you were less than truthful,” he commented, as they walked away.

Lavellan narrowed his eyes at him. “What, exactly, was it I said that was untruthful?”

“Not what you said, what you didn’t say. What you _neglected_ to say, specifically.”

His voice lowered. “Blood magic is not widely accepted among the Dalish. Should I have condemned him in her memory simply because you have an axe to grind? Valorin was not one of your magisters; he was a child, desperate to help his people and find his place among them. Some sympathy and understanding wouldn’t kill you, Dorian.”

That hit hard. When Dorian didn’t respond, Lavellan turned away to approach the Keeper.

They spoke in Elvish, Keeper Hawen presumably conveying gratitude for the help they had given, judging by Lavellan’s expression. They spoke at length, their words and faces serious. At one point, Hawen took Lavellan’s hands in his own. Dorian had never seen Lavellan express such vulnerability before.

“Dareth shiral, da’len.”

“And you, hahren,” Lavellan said, offering a small bow.

Some of their conversation had apparently included the recruitment of the eager, young Loranil. Lavellan gave him congratulations, as well as instruction on Inquisition camps and to whom he would be reporting. The boy looked at Lavellan with stars in his eyes.

That night, Sera retired to her tent early, and Lavellan produced a bottle of whiskey to share between the three of them. It wasn’t one of his better vintages, but Dorian drank it all the same. Once, he would have disparaged such classless indulgence, but these days he had learned to simply be grateful for whatever would get him drunk.

“How are you, Inquisitor?” Blackwall asked, bringing out a whetstone for his sword.

“It’s been a long day. Despite that, it was good to be among my people again.”

“Didn’t make you too homesick?”

Lavellan laughed softly. “That would suggest that I ever stopped being homesick.”

He said it with a smile, but the comment jabbed Dorian in the gut all the same. Lavellan rarely outright said he missed his home, but it was obvious the way he spoke of his clan and his sister, whenever he took it upon himself to perform a Dalish rite alone. Dorian didn’t like to think how much pain Lavellan was keeping to himself. The man was like an oyster shell sometimes, and trying to pry open his walls would only result in harm.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Blackwall continued, “the ceremony you did for that boy? Could you explain?”

Lavellan took a long draught of his whiskey before passing it to Dorian. “It is tradition for the Dalish to bury our dead; we do not cremate unless circumstances require. The prayer is for Falon’Din, our guide to the afterlife. These days, Falon’Din cannot help our People directly, thus, the oak staff is so the departed won’t falter on the path to the afterlife. The cedar branch is to ward off Fear and Deceit, the raven familiars of Dirthamen, who no longer controls them.

“When it is not possible to bury our dead in sites such as Var Bellanaris, we mark graves by planting a tree—Vallasdahlen. It’s an ancient practice to honor the fallen, but it serves the practical purpose of preventing shems from tampering with the graves, as well as keeping the corpse from rising; that is why all the corpses you see are humans,” he concluded, with a nod towards the ramparts.

Blackwall hummed, bringing the bottle of whiskey to his lips. “I’ve always thought the Dalish traditions had an elegance to them. Not that I’ve ever gotten to hear much about them.”

Lavellan smirked. “Most Dalish are wary of humans and protective of our customs. There have been times when we shared our culture with shems, only to have them use it against us.”

“That’s why you said we couldn’t be a part of the ceremony.”

“My clan’s philosophy is that it is not wise to share our ways arbitrarily, but should one prove themselves honorable, trust goes a long way to ensuring bonds. For those that come in good faith, it only benefits to give them understanding. In this way, non-Dalish can, of course, be invited to participate in our traditions. However, Valorin was not my clan mate, so it was not my place to invite outsiders to mourn him with me.”

Lavellan drained the last of the whiskey and extinguished the fire. “To bed, then. Hopefully, Leliana will have someone who can decipher those glyphs for us. Thank you both, for accompanying me today.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Blackwall said, sheathing his sword.

As Blackwall settled into his tent, Dorian caught Lavellan before he reached his. “Lavellan. Earlier today—”

“Don’t worry about,” Lavellan said, waving him off.

Dorian’s eyebrows raised. “Don’t _worry_ about it?” Since when was Lavellan not the type to hold on to grievances?

He sighed. “It’s been a long day for both of us.”

“Longer for you, I think.”

That twisted the corner of his lips into a wry grin. He didn’t say anything, though, just stared down at the empty bottle in his hand.

Dorian carefully placed a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

A longer sigh this time. “You are justified in how you feel about blood magic, Dorian,” he said, voice a low rumble. “But with Valorin… it’s just different.”

“I—I know. You’re right. I shouldn’t have judged him—”

“I’m not angry with you. I don’t—want to be angry with you.”

“Well, how about you let me apologize, so that it’s easier for you to not be angry with me?”

He frowned. “I don’t want you to apologize, either,” he mumbled.

Dorian was at a loss. He was uncomfortably aware that his hand was still on Lavellan’s arm, heat burning his palm. “Then what—” he cleared his throat, hand dropping to his side “—what do you want?”

Lavellan ran a hand over his braid, rubbed his forehead. “I just want to go to bed and—and let tomorrow be a new day. I don’t want to dwell on this anymore.”

“All right.”

After a moment of silence, Lavellan looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Did you need something else?”

“Oh. No,” Dorian said, telling himself it wasn’t lie. “No, not at all. I’m—going to bed. Good night, Lavellan.”

“Good night, Dorian.”

Dorian went to his tent feeling like there’d been a missed step in their conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so if you take dorian with you while doing the Dalish Favor quests, choosing the 'he was brave' option when speaking to emalien will get you disapproval from him, hence the events of this chapter~
> 
> also i took some of the info about dalish burial rites from [this](http://merrybandofmurderers.tumblr.com/post/184167212418/dalish-death-trees) post, so credit where that's due


	28. what it means to be "elfy"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update, but we're back in business!

They were descending into the tunnels of the Temple of Dirthamen, Lavellan and Blackwall at point, when Dorian popped the question. “All right, Sera, why do you think the Inquisitor isn’t ‘elfy’?”

She looked at him askance. “What’re you on about, ponce?”

“The other day, you said the Inquisitor wasn’t bad about being elfy. Why did you say that?” It had been a most baffling statement; Lavellan was proudly Dalish. Because of this, Dorian had always wondered how Sera got along with him so well.

“Well, he doesn’t make his ears my business, does he? He’s not always going on, like Solas—ancient empire this, lost legacy that—all mooning and shit. He talks the fancy words, but he’s not like, rubbing it in, it’s just him. He’s a normal person most of the time.”

“Sera, we are literally entering an ancient elven temple. Right now. After investigating ancient elven glyphs.”

“So he sticks his foot in it sometimes, sure. But he loves old magic rubbish like that, and always shoving his nose into everything. Probably hoping there’s some big scary here for us to kill, or that he can find some weird magicky thing for his trouble. Most you mage-types are like that.”

“He spends half his time confronting humans about their racism.”

She snorted. “Sticking people for their bullshit isn’t _elfy_.”

“Then I have to wonder what you even mean by that word.”

Before Sera could respond, Blackwall shouted, “If you’re done gossiping, we could use a hand!”

Dorian sighed, and they went to help Lavellan and Blackwall with the corpses that had risen from the flooded ground.

* * *

“Cheery place,” Blackwall muttered, cleaning his sword after their third encounter with unsettled dead.

They walked down the dank hallways, dripping water a constant patter in the background. The chilly air clung to their damp clothes. There was a thickness to it, a presence almost. There was no wind in the halls, but Dorian could swear he heard whispers.

“Dirthamen is the god of secrets,” Lavellan said. “It is not surprising his followers would build such a temple.” He ran a hand over a moss-encrusted mural. “It’s a pity our First isn’t here. His chosen god is Dirthamen, and he’s far more studious about the pantheon than I am.”

“I still say you stop plucking up those moldy body parts,” Sera grumbled. The last arcane horror that had spawned had tossed her into a pile of spider-infested bones.

“I have to concur,” Dorian said, grimacing as he stepped on something squishy. Hopefully a fungus—but probably not. At least it stayed under the water.

Lavellan glanced over his shoulder, brow raised. “This coming from the mage who once researched time magic.”

“In a formal, controlled environment. Not in an ancient, forgotten temple, interfering with ancient, unknown magic, potentially bringing ancient doom down upon our heads.”

“And yet somehow, that still happened,” Blackwall muttered.

“Nailed ya,” Sera laughed.

Dorian glared at them.

“Play nice,” Lavellan said absently. He was currently inspecting another rune with the veilfire torch. “And relax, Dorian, I’m not going to let ancient doom fall on your pretty head. Besides, it’s not forgotten—it’s elven. I can figure out what we need to do.”

“Splendid,” he quipped. He nudged Sera, whispering, “Case in point.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “What’s it matter to you, how elfy he is?” she hissed.

“It doesn’t. I just thought it mattered to _you_.”

“You tryna get under my skin about something?”

“No, I was just curious—”

“Well, _leave_ it,” she said, jabbing an arrow at him, “if you know what’s good for you and your silky underthings.”

“Now that’s just uncalled for.”

Blackwall looked between them, wide-eyed. Voice strangled, he said, “What conversation is this?”

“I assure you, Blackwall, any discussion involving my silky underthings does not concern you.”

“Thank the Maker for that.”

Lavellan coughed pointedly. “If we could turn our focus back to the ancient, unknown, potentially doom-inducing task at hand? I’m sure Dorian’s unmentionables won’t miss the attention.” His expression was bland, but Dorian could see a tremble in the line of his lips.

Dorian rubbed at his temples. “Let’s just see what other malignant spirits we can rouse.”

* * *

The Highest One was a demon, of course. No telling if it always was, or if untold centuries spent sealed away in a forgotten, underground temple had transformed it. Dorian had to give it to Lavellan, though, with the Highest One dead, the general unpleasant aura of the place had dissipated. It was still cold and dank, but the air was just air and whatever whispers Dorian had heard were silenced.

“So we calling it good?” Sera asked from her perch on a crumbling statue.

Her response was a curse from Lavellan, and they turned to find him bent over, up to his elbows in the water, splashing and digging through corpses.

“Problem, Inquisitor?” Blackwall asked.

“I dropped my necklace. Give me a hand?”

“Neither my hands are going in that!” Sera squawked.

Dorian looked dubiously down at the dark waters, filled with desiccated corpses and snakes and Maker knew what else.

“Is it… valuable?” Blackwall asked, also seemingly hesitant to stick an unsuspecting arm into the murk.

“It’s a little hard to replace,” Lavellan said, voice tense. His braid trailed through the water, bits of rotting gore coming up with his gauntlets as he made wide sweeps through the pool.

Dorian sighed, rolling up his sleeves. _Honestly, the things I do for_ —he stopped that train of thought before it could go any farther. “What does it look like?” He’d only ever caught glimpses; Lavellan kept it mostly tucked in the collar of his robes and under his shirts. Still, Dorian didn’t think he’d ever seen him without it.

“It’s a stone, gold-ish, about the size of your thumb nail, on a leather strap.”

Blackwall was stabbing cautiously into the water with his sword, lifting and turning corpses with his boot.

Dorian held a veilfire up to the surface. The water was dark, but clear, and the light made the underwater tableau horrifyingly lucid. It a took a few minutes of slow, careful searching—listening to Sera grumble about Lavellan losing jewelry like some hapless noble maiden—before he spotted a golden glimmer caught in a skeletal hand.

He slung his staff off his back and used the blade to stab through the palm and lift the necklace from the water. The arm fell apart at the wrist, soft water-logged flesh dropping away with a splat. Dorian wrinkled his nose against the odor. He could see where the leather strap of the necklace was tangled around the spindly corpse fingers, and he gingerly plucked it free. “I believe I’ve got it.”

He took out a handkerchief to clean it. The stone wasn’t pure gold; it had a greenish hue to it and was surprisingly light, dry and not entirely smooth. Like wood, almost.

“You found it?” Lavellan was there, concern tight around his eyes. Dorian held it up, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Sylaise bless you,” he said, taking the necklace back. He held it carefully, turning it over to inspect for any damage.

“Interesting trinket,” Dorian said. “What stone is that?”

“Not a stone, actually. Dragon bone.”

“Dragon bone?”

“From a drake. My clan encountered the remains in Nevarra when I was young.” Sera waded over, elbowing Dorian aside for a closer look. “It’s been fade-touched, so it’s sensitive to magic.”

“Fancy,” she muttered. “We done with your creepy elfy temple now?”

Lavellan laughed. “We are.”

“ _Finally_. Let’s go, then.” She tramped off, Blackwall at her heels.

Lavellan turned his back to Dorian, holding up the necklace around his neck. “Will you tie this for me? The clasp is broken, and I can’t with my gauntlets.”

“Certainly.” Dorian nimbly secured the leather tie, forcing himself not too linger too long over the pale, freckled nape of Lavellan’s neck. That close, he could smell Lavellan’s natural musk of sweat, leather, and earth under the meaty stench of corpses and the burning ozone of lingering magic.

With the necklace tied, Lavellan turned to thank him, slipping it into his undershirt, and Dorian saw the dragon bone had turned pitch black. “Oh, it changes color.”

“Yes. Sensitive to magic, I told you.”

“To what end? Does it serve a purpose?”

Lavellan smiled, coy. “It does. Perhaps one day you’ll discover my secrets.” Before Dorian could decide what to say to _that_ , Lavellan’s expression turned serious and he put a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “Really, Dorian, thank you.”

“Of—of course.”

“Now, let’s go. I’m wet through and could use a drink.”

* * *

That night found them above ground in front of a roaring fire. They’d set up several heat glyphs and their clothes hung around the campsite. Sera had stolen Lavellan’s flask and disappeared into her tent. Blackwall was taking a casual patrol of the area with a pair of Inquisition agents. Thus, Dorian was free to warm his feet and admire the flex of Lavellan’s bare arms as he combed through the length of his tangled hair. It was rare to see Lavellan dressed down this way, in his breeches and undershirt. Even in Skyhold, he wore leather greaves, studded gloves, and chain mail.

“So I must confess my curiosity,” Lavellan said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, “as to what my elfyness has to do with your silky underthings.”

“ _Vishante kaffas_.” Dorian let his head thunk against the stump he had been using for a backrest. “You heard all of that did you?”

Lavellan chuckled, setting aside his comb. He tugged playfully at one of his earrings. “Bigger ears means for better hearing.”

“Right, I’ll be sure to remember that.”

“So…” Lavellan prompted, with an encouraging expression.

Dorian sighed. “I merely wanted to know why Sera thought you weren’t ‘elfy’, by her estimation.”

“So you have noticed that I’m ‘elfy’?”

“I assumed ‘elfy’ simply meant that you acknowledge being an elf. Which you do, frequently.”

“Perhaps it only seems I speak so much of being an elf because you are not one and have rarely considered what it is like to be one.”

Dorian paused. Lavellan’s tone was pleasant; his expression did not contain any hostility. It did not seem to be a test, but Dorian still felt he needed to tread carefully. “I will not deny that. There is much I had not considered before our acquaintance. But with Sera’s, um, distaste for such… acknowledgment, I wondered how the two of you got along so well.”

“Sera is an elf. She knows what it’s like to be one. There is little need to point it out to her.”

“But you do. Talk about things like that. With other elves. Skinner and Dalish. Lysas. Charter. Solas.” Well, arguing was what he mostly did with Solas, but Dorian knew Lavellan spent time with the various elven members of the Inquisition and that they talked about “elfy” things. Lavellan was just as determined to protect the elves, dwarves, and qunari among the ranks from bigotry as he was the mages.

Lavellan hummed and dug in his pack, unearthing the package of hearth cakes he carried with him on the road. These he made special himself before every trip, overloaded with berries and candied nuts. Dorian couldn’t help but think it adorable the way Lavellan’s ears perked and his eyes brightened as he savored his treat.

“Look, Sera is Sera,” Lavellan continued. “I’m sorry she feels badly about being an elf, but she has her reasons, and she doesn’t need me preaching to her about Dalish pride and all that, and I’ve got better things to do than waste my time trying. So Sera and I talk about other things.

“And look, I get her perspective. We have a boy in our clan like her; he doesn’t care too much for the history lessons. He values more what he has today and what he will do in the future. It isn’t fun, you know, to think about how people hate you. I respect that Sera doesn’t want to linger on it. If I want to talk about ‘elfy’ things, there are other people I can go to.”

Well, Dorian supposed that explained how Sera got along with Lavellan. They were quite a frightening pair around Skyhold, with Sera’s penchant for mischief and Lavellan’s reckless ingenuity. Dorian would need to put some wards on his dresser when they returned, just in case Sera felt the need to follow through with her threat.

Lavellan stretched out in front of the fire, head propped up on his hand as he ate. He held a hearth cake out to Dorian, which Dorian accepted. Lavellan was not the finest cook, as his companions had discovered, but he so rarely shared his personal treats, Dorian didn’t wish to spurn him. It did nothing to help the obnoxious fluttering that persisted under his breastbone.

At that moment, Blackwall returned, and Lavellan protectively re-wrapped his remaining cakes before shoving them deep into his pack. Dorian couldn’t help the smirk he directed at Blackwall, though a hearth cake was little to gloat over, and received an unimpressed glare in return. Overall, even if they’d had to trek through a cursed, corpse-ridden, subterranean temple, Dorian figured the trip had been pretty worthwhile.


	29. once the best of men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the very late update!! my beta gave me some revisions to make, which i procrastinated on. but this chapter did end up a few hundred words longer, so there's that at least

Dorian found Lavellan in the War Room with Leliana. Papers were strewn across the table as the pair bent over to peruse them, murmuring in hushed tones. At Dorian’s entrance, Leliana deftly scooped up and folded several into her cloak.

Lavellan glanced at Dorian over his shoulder. “Did you need something?” he asked, his tone heavy with the implication of interruption.

Choosing not to remark on the obviously clandestine nature of their meeting, he said, “Varric sent me to fetch you. I believe you promised him cards.”

“What?” Lavellan’s head turned to the windows, where the sky had been black for hours. “Shit, is it that late already?”

Leliana said, “Shall we reconvene tomorrow, Inquisitor?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Leliana, sorry for keeping you.”

“Not at all.” She slipped past Dorian with an aloof smile, the door closing with barely a whisper behind her.

Lavellan, however, remained at the table, sifting through papers and moving markers across the map.

“Is your clan in any trouble?”

“Oh no, it’s… another matter she’s handling for me.”

“The Inquisitor’s work is never done, it seems.”

“Quite literally,” he grumbled.

Dorian approached, casting an eye over the table. Most of the papers contained diagrams, encoded notes; several appeared to be letters or requisitions. He turned his attention to Lavellan, who had a hand over his mouth and was muttering to himself.

“You look ragged. Have you eaten at all, today?”

“I ate,” he said promptly, then added, reluctant, “at some point, probably.”

Dorian shook his head. “Why don’t you come down to the Rest and get some food in you? Or better yet, retire and let me send a servant to the kitchens for you. You look dead on your feet.”

Lavellan waved a hand dismissively, then said, “Have you been to see Alexius at all?”

Dorian blinked, leaned back against the table. “I… have not.”

“I only mention it because he asked about you.” When Dorian said nothing, Lavellan continued, as if Dorian might need the explanation, “When I saw him earlier today. I needed his confirmation on some research Fiona showed me.” Lavellan was watching him carefully from the corner of his eye, his expression blank. Watching for Dorian’s reaction.

In some distant part of his mind, Dorian knew that somewhere in the bowels of Skyhold, Gereon Alexius yet lived. Lavellan had charged him with helping the mages, and so he did. Dorian heard his name now and then from Fiona and a few of the other rebel mages who worked with him. It had not occurred to him—he didn’t know why—that Lavellan himself would have contact with him. Perhaps because Lavellan had not mentioned Alexius at all since his judgment.

Lavellan was still watching him, his expression still careful.

“Did he?” Dorian said, for the sake of saying something.

“He did not take the news of Felix’s death well.”

“I can’t imagine he would have.”

“I had to keep guards with him, to make sure he wouldn’t…”

Lavellan didn’t finish, but cold crept into Dorian’s gut regardless. He didn’t need it spelled out; he remembered how eager to die Alexius had been in the future, how despondent he’d been in the present, brought before the Inquisitor’s throne in chains.

Dorian crossed his arms, looking past Lavellan’s shoulder. “Is there a reason you’re telling me this?”

“Why haven’t you been to see him?”

“You know why.”

“And I understand, but if you are hoping for him to recover, he’s not likely to do that without people around he actually likes.”

“I doubt Alexius thinks too highly of me, after I so thoroughly rejected his proposition.”

“He is bitter about a lot of things and has many regrets, I’m sure, but I think he wants to know that you are well.”

Dorian turned to look at Lavellan directly. “What is this, Lavellan? Sympathy for a Tevinter magister?”

Lavellan snorted, tossing his hair over his shoulder. “Do not be stupid. Alexius got exactly what he deserved. But—” He sighed, looking down at his hands resting on the table. “I do understand. Being so terrified of losing your only family you’d be willing to do anything? That is a desperation I’m familiar with. And if I may be blunt, you don’t have a lot of family left to you either, Dorian.”

Dorian flinched, looking away.

“So no, I don’t have sympathy for Alexius. But I do understand him, and I care for _you_. Alexius was a man you admired once. Perhaps he can never be that man for you again, but I know that he matters to you, and I can see that Alexius still cares for you, as well. I’m not saying you have to forgive him—I don’t know where you stand on that—but I don’t want you to have any regrets.” Lavellan reached out and laid a hand on Dorian’s arm. “It’s just… something to think about.”

Then he turned and headed for the door. “If you’re going back to Rest, give Varric my apologies, but I’m going to turn in.”

“Stop by the kitchens first,” Dorian said automatically.

Lavellan huffed, “Yes, dear,” and then the door closed behind him.

Dorian’s stomach gave a funny little flip at that, which turned quickly into a prickle of anxiety. In all honesty, he’d written Alexius off; he was ready to forget him. He’d meant it when he told Lavellan he doubted Alexius would ever recover. The man he once admired had become twisted nearly beyond recognition.

 _That is a desperation I’m familiar with_.

Lavellan’s parents were dead, Dorian knew that. He had only his sister left. He couldn’t even imagine how fiercely protective Lavellan must be of her.

 _I care for_ you.

Well, Lavellan was right when he said Dorian didn’t have much family left. His father had severed that connection, and Felix was dead. If Alexius truly regretted what had happened… Dorian certainly had enough regrets of his own.

Dorian sighed, waved his hand to extinguish the sconces, and left the war room. He intercepted a servant to send them to the Rest to tell Varric he and the Inquisitor would not be returning. He could imagine the speculation that would spark, but was too preoccupied to care at that moment.

Dorian had spent plenty of time wondering if he had acted differently with Alexius back then, it might have prevented his corruption by Corypheus. Probably not, but still, the thought nagged him. He’d told Lavellan it was hard not having a patron, but it was more than that, and clearly, Lavellan knew it. Alexius had seen him at his worst and still been there for him, supported him despite all common sense.

Dorian opened the door to his room and collapsed onto the bed. It was too late to do anything then, and his thoughts were still reeling from Lavellan’s impromptu heart-to-heart. He could decide in the morning.

And thus, the next morning found Dorian loitering at the top of the stairs leading to the dungeons. He’d woken with the decision to come here first thing, so he wouldn’t have the chance to talk himself out of it, although he was already dangerously close to it. He had to, though, he’d already asked Lavellan to dismiss anyone who might be there to give him privacy, and the soft look on his face meant Dorian couldn’t write it off as a lost cause and go get drunk.

He took a breath to steel himself, then opened the door and began descending the stairs.

Once upon a time, Alexius had been a close colleague of his father’s, though for many years, Dorian had been too preoccupied with ruining his family’s reputation to get to know him well. It wasn’t until Alexius dragged him out of that brothel and his spiraling self-destruction that he became more of a father to Dorian this his own had been in a long time.

Living with Alexius had given Dorian a freedom, a happiness he’d long since stopped hoping was possible. It had given him his first true friend, as well. At times, Dorian had envied Felix in a wistful sort of way, watching Alexius and Livia dote on their son, in spite of Felix lacking any magical prowess. Felix had been an obnoxiously good influence on Dorian, directing him away from his darker vices, indulging instead in “good, clean fun” as Dorian liked to joke. Men like Felix were few and far between in the Imperium; Alexius had raised him well, and for a time, Dorian had had a taste of that.

Dorian had been _proud_ of the man he’d been under Alexius’s tutelage. Being here, with the Inquisition, at Lavellan’s side, had reminded him of that.

He paused as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He could do it; he owed Alexius that much. And Lavellan was right, Alexius did matter to him, no matter what had transpired or how distraught Dorian had been, he couldn’t forget Alexius.

Back straight, he strode forward, passing empty cells until he reached the occupied one at the end. He had not given much thought to how Alexius might be living, but it appeared he’d earned some creature comforts from Lavellan with his efforts. There was a small, but well-made bed, a table and chairs with a ceramic tea set, shelves filled with books, a rug covering the stone floor, and even a tapestry in Tevinter style. Briefly, he wondered where Lavellan had found it, but it lent a certain warmth to the cell, and Dorian felt a swell of relief to know Alexius wasn’t caged in squalor.

The man in question was seated at the table, a book open before him. Alexius looked diminished this way, in simple robes and simple quarters. His cheeks were sunken, shadows under his eyes, but he did not look sickly. Tired, grieving, but hale.

At the sound of Dorian’s approach, Alexius looked up, a faint spark appearing in weathered eyes. “Dorian.” His voice was thin, worn through with the weight of so much history. But under it all, an affection, not yet drowned out by all of Alexius’s regrets.

 _I think he wants to know that you are well_.

Dorian felt himself hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kind of feel like alexius gets forgotten in the game, so i wanted to address that


	30. Dorian lends a hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize the regular update schedule has fallen to the wayside. been dealing with some rough stuff in my personal life (which has made writing difficult) so updates are just going to happen when i can make them happen. sorry about that.
> 
> but!! i am not giving up on this fic! updates may take longer, but they will happen. this fic was already going to be a long one, it's just going to take a little bit longer to finish

Dorian was fiddling was the runes on his staff when Lavellan cursed softy across the fire from him. He looked up to find Lavellan shaking out his hand. His left hand. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he grumbled, flexing his fingers.

“Yes, you look very fine.”

Lavellan shot him a glare and went back to marking up the requisitions.

Dorian returned to his staff, but observed Lavellan from the corner of his eye. Lavellan had a crease between his brows, lips set in a hard line. His fingers clenched restlessly around the quill in his hand as he made notes.

After a few minutes, Lavellan swore again, tossed aside the requisitions, and pulled off his gauntlet.

Sera popped her head out of her tent. “Whazzat? Is it the Very-tory buggers?”

“It’s nothing,” Lavellan snapped.

“Well, don’t twist your ears, Ser Grumpy Dick,” she muttered, ducking back inside.

Lavellan grimaced, rubbing his hand.

Dorian set his staff aside. “Is it the anchor?”

Lavellan hissed something in Elvish before sighing, shoulders slumped. “It’s normally not this bad.”

Dorian made a noise of concern in his throat and moved to Lavellan’s side. “And you haven’t said anything, of course.”

As Dorian took Lavellan’s hand in his own, Lavellan said, “Because it’s usually not a problem.”

“Which means it is sometimes,” Dorian said admonishingly.

Lavellan huffed, looking away.

Since Lavellan’s hands were almost always gloved, Dorian didn’t know what the anchor typically looked like, outside of closing rifts. At that moment, it glimmered beneath Lavellan’s skin, like sunlight underwater. It had an eerie sort of beauty, mesmerizing like a benign wisp. Lavellan’s skin was rough under his fingers, decorated with small scars.

“How does it feel?” Dorian asked.

“Normally, it just sort of… tickles, like grass brushing against my palm; easy enough to ignore. Sometimes it pricks, like thorns.” He grunted as his hand spasmed in Dorian’s grip.

“What about right now?”

“It’s hard to explain.” Sweat dotted Lavellan’s brow.

“Stabbing? Throbbing? Piercing?”

“Throbbing, kind of, but deep, like it’s in my bones. It pulses along with my heartbeat, and then it’s… stabbing, like jagged splinters. And my head hurts,” he sighed, bringing his other hand up to his temple.

Dorian frowned and bled some healing magic into Lavellan’s hand. The tension drained from Lavellan’s shoulders, the wrinkles unfolding from his expression. “Does that help?”

“A little, yes. For now.”

“Have you spoken to Solas? I understand he helped with it before.”

Lavellan sighed, eyes closed. “He’s done what he can. It wasn’t so bad at first, but it seems the anchor’s grown… resistant the more I’ve used it.”

“We’ve closed a lot of rifts today.”

“We have.”

“Does it hurt? Closing the rifts?”

“No, not exactly. It’s… it’s intense. The sheer amount of power flowing through me—it’s like drowning in rapids. The world narrows, I’m aware of nothing else. My breath stops; I can’t hear past the rushing in my ears.”

“Sounds very unpleasant.”

He shrugged, eyes fluttering open. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

Dorian adjusted his grip on Lavellan’s hand, continuing to direct healing magic into the anchor. It was an odd sensation, almost as if the anchor was pulling his magic in. The light had dulled, and it winked faintly under Lavellan’s skin.

After a few moments, Lavellan sagged, leaning against Dorian’s shoulder. Against his will, the fluttering erupted in his chest. He became acutely aware that he was essentially holding hands with Lavellan.

His hand was angular, with long fingers and bony knuckles. His nails were scuffed but cut neatly. Callouses edged his palm and fingers. Dorian traced idly over the curling tattoo on back of Lavellan’s hand.

Lavellan’s head dropped onto Dorian’s shoulder.

Dorian suppressed a startled noise. “G-getting tired?” He cursed the stutter in his voice, but it was hard to help with Lavellan’s heat pressed against his side.

Lavellan huffed. “I’m tired a lot. But I supposed we should get to bed. I want to get to the Citadelle tomorrow.”

Dorian allowed him to take back his hand, trying not to feel bereft, heart beating wildly. Lavellan stood, collecting his gauntlet and discarded requisitions.

“Good night, Dorian. Thank you.”

“And you, as well. Let me know if the anchor gives you any more trouble.”

Lavellan gave him a wry, weary grin, then slipped into his tent.

Dorian stayed by the fire a while longer, thinking. His hands clasped together, holding on to the lingering warmth of Lavellan’s skin.


	31. the altus and the first enchanter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your patience regarding this chapter! i struggled getting it just right, but you can thank my beta for it ending up twice as long as i originally had it

Vivienne was the picture of elegance, reclining on her loveseat, book in hand, as Dorian ascended the stairs to her balcony. He wondered if she had known he was coming and taken the time to arrange herself. Dorian wouldn’t put it past her; it’s what he would do.

“I hope I am not interrupting anything too important,” he said.

“Not at all,” she replied, setting her book aside. She gestured for him to take a seat. “It is unusual for you to seek me out, Dorian. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

While he and Vivienne fundamentally disagreed on matters of mage autonomy, Dorian enjoyed their interactions. She reminded him of the cutthroat social politics of his homeland. Not to mention being the only other person in this backwater with a modicum understanding of fashion.

Dorian’s request would be putting him at a disadvantage, and his instincts railed against it. But this wasn’t Tevinter, and Dorian could at least trust Vivienne wouldn’t do anything to undermine the Inquisition.

“I am in need of a favor.”

She raised a perfectly manicured brow. “Indeed?”

“On behalf of a mutual friend.”

Some of the slyness went out of her expression. “You speak of the Inquisitor?” At his nod, she straightened in her seat. “What does he require that he would not ask for himself?”

“You are an adept potion maker, and, I understand, skilled at healing as well.”

“Healing was a useful skill in the Circle. It is not a specialty, but I am proficient.”

“As you can imagine, healing is not a talent commonly cultivated in Tevinter.” Dorian did not feel the need to say this was because blood magic was more commonly practiced; Vivienne could make the connection on her own. “I was hoping you might share your knowledge with me.”

Necromancy was at the opposite end of creation magic, but a basic understanding was required; you couldn’t manipulate death without understanding life. This had garnered him much derision in the Circle back home.

There were healers in Tevinter, of course, some of the greatest in Thedas. But they typically came from families of healers and dedicated their entire education to the craft. Outside of that, healing was often looked down on as a soft study, not worth bothering with when there were spells of true power to learn.

Vivienne hummed consideringly. “And this is for the Inquisitor? What particular challenge has he brought to you?”

Dorian was hesitant to betray Lavellan’s confidence, but he would need all the help he could get. He wasn’t going to let Lavellan’s stubbornness stop him. “On our most recent trip to the Exalted Plains, I learned that the Anchor has been giving him some trouble. It seems whatever Solas did for him in the beginning is no longer effective. It was my hope, working together, we might find some way to ease his burden.”

Vivienne tapped her finger against her lips in thought. “If the Inquisitor did not request help, it is likely because he thinks nothing can be done.”

“Well, I don’t accept that,” Dorian snapped. “The Anchor may be largely unknown, but that does not mean it cannot be known. You of all people understand how much magic can accomplish. I will not sit by and let the—and do nothing, not without at least _attempting_.”

Her smirk was only a little patronizing. “The Inquisitor will not let you treat him like an experiment.”

Dorian sighed. “We will simply have to do what we can in spite of that.”

Vivienne contemplated him for a long moment, before standing and collecting several tomes from her desk. “I noticed that the Inquisitor has been using his right hand more and seems aggravated by it, so I began brushing up on my knowledge of healing in the event he put aside his pride and asked for help.” She passed the books over to him. “You have an understanding of the basics and a good grasp on theory, so these will get you acquainted with progressing to more advanced techniques. Have you spoken with Solas at all?”

Dorian frowned, looking over the titles—advanced techniques, indeed. “I have, actually. He told me which spells and wards he used initially. He’s offered his input, but I know Lavellan hasn’t gone to him since those stopped working. My concern is that Lavellan will refuse any help on principle if Solas is too involved. You know how they… get along.”

Vivienne pursed her lips, knowing and satisfied. “I am sure we can manage. To that end, we might also wish to speak with the arcanist.”

“Dagna?”

“Traditional healing may only offer temporary respite. Dagna may be able to devise a more permanent solution. I understand her contributions have been quite innovative.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

Dagna had been working tirelessly on her research regarding red lyrium with Fiona and Alexius. She spent nearly as much time in the mage tower as the undercroft and had nigh revolutionized the mages’ understanding of alchemy. Lavellan himself was in awe of her rune work, and would spend hours answering any questions she had about the Anchor, the Fade, his magic, and Dalish spell casting.

“Vivienne you’re a genius.”

She smiled. “It has been said.” She paused, frowning slightly. Looking down at her nails, she spoke slowly, “It is no secret, I think, that the Inquisitor and I did not start out on the best of terms, though his attempts at civility were amusing.

“I cannot deny I was… dubious when Cassandra and Leliana appointed him. But he has proven himself a respectable leader. I do not think he is naturally suited to such a position, but he has risen to the task in a way I cannot help but admire.”

Her eyes, hard and determined, rose to meet Dorian’s. “The Inquisitor will require our full support in order to achieve victory.”

Dorian’s jaw clenched. He thought of the perpetual exhaustion that plagued Lavellan, of the struggle he kept to himself, the pain he did not show. He thought of the training dummies left battered and demolished by Lavellan’s frustrations, Lavellan staying late in the Rest, downing ale like water—that night on Plains when Lavellan leaned against his shoulder, voice thick with relief.

There was not much Dorian could do, but this, at least, was a burden he could help Lavellan bear. Lavellan deserved to know he did not have to fight alone.

“Let me know what the arcanist thinks,” Vivienne said, leaning back in her seat. “We can then convene to work out a solution.”

“I shall. Excuse me.” He stood, offered her a grateful bow, and hurried to the undercroft.


	32. lost chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a reward for your patience, i have brought you angst

Dorian swept out of the mage tower, door slamming shut behind him. The cold mountain air lashed at him, sending his robes flapping. He struggled to breathe, even as his lungs seized, raw and burning. Unseeing, Dorian staggered down to the battlements overlooking the garden.

_Rilienus, skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles. He would have said yes.”_

Dorian shoved the thought from his mind. _Do not think of that_. He leaned heavily against the wall, pulse loud in his ears.

Evening was settling dusky and blushed over the peaks. Stars winked alive in the fading light. A few Chantry sisters were working the soil, but the garden was empty otherwise. A faint wind whispered through the vegetation, carrying the sweet scents of the blooms up into the air.

Footsteps padded on the stones behind him, and he grimaced. It had to be Lavellan, and Dorian knew he was only hearing him because Lavellan let him.

After a few moments of tense silence, Lavellan sighed and said, “I’ve spoken to Cole. He’s… learning why it’s not okay to just… blurt stuff.”

Dorian’s arms tightened across his chest. He would laugh if he didn’t fear it would come out hysterical. Really, it was his own fault, starting that conversation with Cole, but Maker. Right there in front of Lavellan and his gaggle of apprentices. Dorian wouldn’t be showing his face in the mage tower for a while.

“It’s fine,” is what he said. “I was the one who asked, after all, and Cole… means well.”

Lavellan hummed. “He does, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of knowing better. He may not be human, but if his intent is to help, he needs to understand _some_ social niceties. Good intentions mean little when they cause more harm than aid.” Reproach colored his words, and Dorian could picture the twisted grin curling Lavellan’s lips.

Silence stretched awkward between them as Dorian struggled to bring his expression under control so he could turn around. He wanted to brush it off, play it down, but he couldn’t. Not about that, not to Lavellan.

Lavellan settled against the wall next to him. “One time, I was walking with Josephine. Cole asked if he could join us, and then told her about the… unfortunate things I had said to a visiting noble that I’d been feeling guilty about. And yesterday, Cullen and Cassandra had cornered me to talk about the troops, and Cole popped up to explain in… great detail about a time I killed a group of Templars for harassing me.” He cleared his throat. “So it’s not just… well, Cole is learning. You don’t have to be… embarrassed.”

Dorian ran a hand over his face. He knew what Lavellan was doing, but was too conflicted to feel grateful for it. He was barely holding himself together, and the man’s presence wasn’t helping. “That isn’t really the same thing, Inquisitor.”

A beat. “I—I know. I won’t ask you to talk about it, but…” A soft exhale. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I just… don’t want you to feel like you’re… alone.”

Dorian’s fingernails bit into his palms. It wouldn’t help, he knew it wouldn’t help, but the pain was crawling up his throat. “Cole’s wrong,” he rasped. “He wouldn’t have said yes. That’s just what I wish.”

Lavellan’s long fingers tapped uncertainly on the wall. “Even if he had, it might not have worked out.”

Dorian gave a half-strangled, hysterical laugh. “Is _that_ your attempt to comfort me?”

Lavellan shifted beside him. “It’s just… the truth. I don’t know what to say that would be of comfort.”

“Oh, how about some nonsense about how he was a fool to let me go, any man would be lucky to have me, the usual blather.”

There was a small huff. “Yes, well, that might make me too much of a hypocrite.”

Dorian’s heart seized, and a hand went to his mouth to stifle any more unfortunate noises. “Well, thank you, Inquisitor, that’s very helpful,” he bit out.

Lavellan scoffed. “You are not the only one who’s had some tragedy in his love life, Dorian.”

Dorian spun to look at him. Lavellan was frowning, as if he regretted his words, but he met Dorian’s gaze defiantly.

“So, what? You’re telling me I should let it go? _You_?”

“ _No_. I just—” He made a frustrated noise, fingers digging through his hair. “I’m trying—”

“You might want to stop before you strain something.” It was a low blow, Dorian knew. But this—he didn’t need Lavellan’s comfort on _this_.

Lavellan’s eyes narrowed, ears pressed flat to his head. His fists clenched at his side, and a spark lit up Dorian’s spine. His skin felt tight and magic prickled in his palms. Ozone sharpened the wind as it hissed over the flagstones.

_Do it_ , he thought. _Do… something_.

But the moment passed, and Lavellan turned on his heel and stalked away, hair billowing like a flame. The door slammed behind him, echoing in the growing night.

A hollowness swelled in Dorian’s chest. He stared at where Lavellan had stood, before tearing himself away. He hurried across the battlements to his room. He pushed open the door, fully intending fall face first into bed and remain unconscious until morning.

“I was trying to help. Heal harm, soothe sorrow. I didn’t mean to hurt.”

Dorian flinched, cursing. Shutting the door firmly behind him, he snapped, “Yes, Cole, there is a time and place, and right now is _neither_.”

Cole was perched on Dorian’s desk. “A heart unsettled. Longing. Lingering. Wishing for what lays just out of reach. Love turned in like thorns to find warmth in the wrong bed. It hurts to turn away from him, but holding on would be crueler.” Cole shifted. “I don’t understand. Your edges fit, but you force them not to. Why?”

Dorian blanched. “ _Cole_.” His voice rasped in his throat, and he struggled to swallow past the dryness. “That isn’t… this _really_ isn’t a good time.”

“I don’t know how to untangle it.” Cole bowed his head. “History scarred, burrowed deep, but like a fresh wound, bleeds at the slightest pressure from the present. Bell laugh turned bloody, a knife of knowing, sun sharp on Templar blades, trust tainted as it unravels into ash on the tongue he tasted. The sweetness soured, his lonely hand tempts, but fear holds back.”

Dorian stripped off his outer robes and dug through his shelves to find a drink.

“I’m sorry. You don’t want to know like this.”

“How very _insightful_ , Cole,” Dorian said, voice scathing.

When he received no response, he looked up to find Cole had vanished from his desk. He sighed and looked down to the wine clenched in his fist, an aged Antivan white Lavellan had brought back for him on his last trip to Val Royeaux. He stared at the label for a long moment, before yanking off the cork and taking a long swallow straight from the bottle.

He collapsed on the bed, drank and drank until his head was hollowed of words.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me about my fic at my new dragon age blog @merrybandofmurderers


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